UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  I.OS  AN 


INVISIBLE  TIDES 


INVISIBLE  TIDES 


BY 

BEATRICE  KEAN  SEYMOUR 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 


All  rights  reserved 

First   Printing,    May,    1921 
Second   Printing,   July,    1921 
Third   Printing,   January,    1922 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OT    AMEEICA 


TO 

MY  HUSBAND 
WILLIAM  KEAN  SEYMOUR 

IN 
COMRADESHIP  AND  LOVE 


2132774 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

PAfll 

DAWN i 

BOOK  II 
SHADOW 45 

BOOK  III 
STORM-WRACK 125 

BOOK  IV 
WASTE  SHORES 233 


Impelled  of  invisible  tides  and  fulfilled  of  unspeakable 
things.  Hymn  to  Proserpine. 


BOOK  I 
DAWN 


INVISIBLE  TIDES 


CHAPTER  ONE 


YEARS  afterwards  it  sometimes  seemed  to  Hilary  Sargent 
that  the  first  really  interesting  event  which  had  occurred 
in  his  life  was  the  receipt,  soon  after  his  seventh  birth- 
day, of  the  letter  from  his  mother  in  America  —  a  phenomenon 
none  the  less  wonderful  because  its  recipient  was  not  enough 
of  a  scholar  to  decipher  its  meaning  without  skilled  assistance. 
But  in  reality,  of  course,  Hilary  knew  quite  well  that  lots  of 
interesting  things  had  happened  to  him  long  before  this  —  in 
that  remote  past  which  had  been  his  fifth  and  sixth  years  of 
existence.  Yet  the  memory  of  these  things,  it  could  not  be 
denied,  had  become  somewhat  blurred,  so  that  to  look  back  at 
them  was  rather  like  looking  at  a  familiar  landscape  through 
a  faint  mist  —  one  could  not  be  sure  that  one  saw  what  actually 
existed.  Here  and  there  a  tall  object,  like  a  church  spire, 
would  stand  out  boldly  challenging  recognition,  but  for  the 
rest  one  could  not  help  believing  that  the  mist  altered  perspec- 
tives and  mischievously  inverted  values. 

Certainly  two  figures  from  out  this  very  early  period  of 
Hilary's  existence  were  rather  like  the  church  spire  —  in  that 
they  did  stand  out  with  amazing  clearness.  The  first  of  these 
figures  was  that  of  a  tall  slim  woman  with  dark  hair  curled 
about  her  forehead  and  a  voice  that  seemed  to  lift  the  heart 
right  out  of  a  small  boy's  body.  This  was  Hilary's  mother, 
and  with  her  nearly  all  his  earliest  recollections  had  to  do. 
The  slim,  exquisitely  gowned  picture  she  had  made  for  his 
childish  eyes  she  remained  for  his  maturer  vision,  and  it  was  for 
her  rather  than  for  any  sculptured  pair  of  lovers  on  a  Grecian 


4  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

vase  that  Keats  had  promised  eternal  youth  and  beauty.  To 
Hilary,  his  mother  was  for  ever  young,  for  ever  fair,  and  long 
after  Fate  had  written  finis  to  the  chapter  of  youth  that  Tragedy 
had  so  pitilessly  blotted,  there  lingered  with  the  boy  the  soft 
tones  of  her  voice,  a  recollection  of  her  smile  or  some  pathetic 
ghost  of  a  chance  attitude  —  and  these  things  had  about  them 
the  sweetness  of  an  old  perfume  and  all  its  tenderness.  They 
could  never  die  or  be  forgotten  — and  yet,  none  the  less,  that 
chapter  was  smudged  and  blotted.  .  .  . 

The  second  figure  that  looked  out  of  the  dead  years  of 
childhood  with  the  persistency  of  the  church  spire  was  nurse, 
who,  however,  did  not  like  children  even  when  they  were 
"  good "  and  refrained  from  asking  questions.  In  nurse's 
slovenly  meaning  of  the  word,  Hilary  was  very  seldom  "  good  " 
and  certainly  he  never  failed  to  ask  questions.  To  Hilary  the 
word  "  nurse  "  came  to  stand  for  a  person  who  said  continually, 
"  Goodness  gracious  me,  'ow  should  /  know?  "  and  became 
disagreeable  when  the  day  was  wet. 

Besides  nurse  there  was  Annie.  Annie  was  the  housemaid, 
young,  pretty  and  talkative;  as  unfavourably  disposed  as  nurse 
to  the  answering  of  questions  and  as  resentful  of  the  rain. 
Hilary  found  this  dislike  of  grown-ups  for  rain  an  extremely 
puzzling  thing,  and  it  seemed  to  be  the  mark  of  them  all  —  if 
he  excepted  his  mother.  Somehow,  he  had  always  to  do  that. 
Molly  Sargent  went  with  no  rule  that  was  ever  made:  the 
very  thought  of  her  converted  your  most  accurate  generalisa- 
tion into  something  entirely  ridiculous.  Certainly  she  was 
never  known  to  make  rude  remarks  about  the  weather  nor  to 
grow  provoked  at  a  child's  interminable  questions.  And  you 
always  knew  when  something  pleased  or  amused  her,  because 
she  looked  at  you  with  such  a  merry  gleam  in  her  eyes,  which 
would  run  like  magic  down  into  the  corners  of  her  mouth  until, 
throwing  back  her  head,  she  would  laugh  aloud  so  delightedly 
that  if  you  were  a  small  child  there  was  nothing  for  you  to  do 
but  laugh  as  well  —  even  if  the  joke  had  escaped  you. 

Sometimes  from  out  the  misty  days  to  which  these  two 
clearly  defined  figures  belonged,  there  would  arise  another  — 
less  clearly  to  be  recognised  and  always  just  a  little  mysterious. 
Him  the  boy  addressed  as  "  father,"  and  in  later  years  found  it 
difficult  to  identify  him  with  the  stern,  prematurely  grey  and 


DAWN  5 

taciturn  man  he  came  eventually  to  know.  Out  of  the  shadowy 
uncertainty  of  this  earliest  of  times  there  arose  a  distinct 
recollection  of  a  grave,  kindly-eyed  man  who  called  his  mother 
"  Molly "  and  sometimes  "  Molly  darling,"  and  who,  in  a 
manner  which  must  surely  have  been  light-hearted  would  ask 
the  boy  if  he  didn't  think  his  mother  a  pretty  lady. 

"Isn't  she  charming?"  he  would  say  gravely,  "and  don't 
you  just  love  the  way  her  hair  curls?  " 

And  Hilary  always  remembered  that  while  he  struggled  with 
his  admiration  and  incoherence  his  mother  would  begin  to 
laugh  in  her  delightfully  unexpected  fashion  —  as  though  life 
were  the  jolliest  thing  you  could  imagine  and  the  compliments 
of  a  husband  and  a  baby  son  the  best  things  in  the  world. 


There  were  other  times,  too,  the  memory  of  which  it  was 
always  a  wondrous  joy  to  recapture  —  and  they  belonged,  most 
of  them,  to  that  hour  when  nurse  had  tucked  him  up  in  bed 
and  had  gone  tramping  with  her  heavy  step  down  the  long 
dark  staircase:  and  they  were  always  heralded  by  a  light 
quick  footstep  that  Hilary  knew  belonged  only  to  one  person 
in  the  world.  And  the  "  only  person  "  would  come  in,  dressed 
beautifully  for  dinner,  and  sitting  by  the  side  of  Hilary's  cot 
would  tell  him  stories  of  the  little  elves  that  live  in  foxgloves 
and  the  fairies  who  dance  in  the  long  grass  when  the  moon 
shines  brightly.  Listening,  Hilary  would  forget  that  nurse 
had  said  there  were  no  fairies:  his  mother  took  them  for 
granted,  so  of  course  there  were  fairies.  And  sometimes  she 
would  recite  little  poems  to  him  —  not  the  stupid  things  nurse 
said  about  Mary  who  had  a  little  lamb  and  Jack  and  Jill  who 
fell  down  a  hill,  but  real  poems  about  real  children.  The  first 
time  Hilary  heard  one  of  these  "  real  "  poems  was  at  the  close 
of  a  cold  winter  day  when  the  night-nursery  fire  was  banked  up 
cheerfully  and  bed,  beyond  question,  was  a  very  comfortable 
place  indeed.  Mrs.  Sargent  had  stood  with  one  foot  held  out 
to  the  bright  blaze  and  her  small  son  had  lain  regarding  her 
with  eyes  wide  with  approval.  Yet  not  until  many  years  later 
did  Hilary  realise  how  grateful  he  was  to  her  for  that  dainty 
appearance.  Molly  Sargent,  at  least,  was  never  guilty  of 


6  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

offending  the  fastidious  gaze  of  a  child  by  a  slovenly  or  careless 
manner  of  dress. 

"  Comfy?  "  she  asked,  neatly  poking  in  a  too-venturesome 
piece  of  coal  with  a  buckled  shoe. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  mind  coming  to  bed  when  it's  dark.  But  it's 
awful  when  the  sun  shines." 

Still  intently  concerned  with  the  daring  piece  of  coal  Molly 
Sargent  had  looked  up  and  smiled.  It  was  an  understanding 
smile,  full  of  sympathy  and  a  rare  camaraderie. 

"  There  was  a  man  once,"  she  said,  "  who  felt  like  that  when 
he  was  a  little  boy,  and  when  he  grew  up  he  remembered  all 
about  it  and  made  a  poem  out  of  it." 

"What's  a  poem?" 

His  mother  left  her  piece  of  coal  to  look  after  itself  and  came 
and  leant  over  the  rail  of  his  cot. 

"  That's  too  big  a  question  for  to-night,"  she  said.  "  But 
a  poem's  a  very  charming  thing." 

"  Is  it?  "  said  Hilary,  "  say  one." 

Molly  Sargent  "  said  "  two  and  told  him  their  names  — "  Bed 
in  Summer  "  and  "  The  Shadow."  They  left  Hilary  strangely 
thrilled.  That,  he  discovered  later,  was  what  his  mother's 
voice  did  to  people.  It  had  thrilled  more  people  than  you 
could  count.  .  .  . 

"Is  he  dead  —  the  man  who  wote  the  poems?  "  he  wanted 
to  know. 

Somehow  it  was  always  a  safe  assumption  —  this  gloomy  one 
that  people  were  dead.  Grimm  and  Andersen  were  dead,  of 
course.  He  knew  that.  Even  nurse  knew  that.  All  the  really 
interesting  people  were  dead,  if  you  came  to  think  of  it.  This 
new  man,  too.  He  had  died,  so  his  mother  told  him,  only  a 
year  ago.  She  said  it  sadly,  almost  as  though  he  had  been  a 
personal  friend  of  hers.  And  she  told  him  his  name  —  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson. 

"  P'waps  he  isn't  weally  dead,"  Hilary  suggested. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is,  darling.  He  died  ever  so  far  away  from 
England  in  a  place  called  Samoa." 

Luckily  for  Molly  Sargent  the  glamour  of  the  new  poems 
overcame  Hilary's  desire  for  information  regarding  Samoa. 
He  settled  himself  on  his  pillows  and  demanded  "  more." 

That  was  the  beginning,  for  Hilary,  of  his  knowledge  of 


DAWN  7 

Stevensonia.  From  that  time  the  author  of  "  Bed  in  Summer  " 
became  a  great  favourite  and  shared  the  honours  with  Grimm 
and  Andersen.  It  was  wonderful  what  a  lot  of  poems  and 
stories  his  mother  knew,  and  how  well  she  told  them.  Her 
deep  vibrant  voice  stirred  her  little  son  so  deeply  that  it  became 
a  pleasure  merely  to  lie  still  and  listen  to  the  sound  of  the 
words:  so  that  sometimes  he  missed  the  point  of  the  story  and 
it  had  to  be  repeated. 


And  once  Stevenson  was  responsible  for  a  tragedy. 

Primarily,  of  course,  it  was  nurse's  fault,  because  she  ought 
to  have  given  him  his  hot  milk  in  the  nursery  instead  of  there 
in  bed.  But  it  was  certainly  Stevenson's  fault  that  he  forgot 
all  about  the  cup  he  was  holding.  Nobody  could  think  of  hot 
milk  and  the  need  to  hold  a  cup  tightly  while  somebody  was 
telling  you  the  story  of  Treasure  Island,  and  Hilary  would  not 
have  cared  in  the  least  if  the  milk  had  not  spitefully  chosen 
to  run  down  the  side  of  his  mother's  beautiful  blue  frock  and 
spoil  the  look  of  it.  Seeing  these  things  he  collapsed  into 
tears. 

"  Silly  boy,"  said  his  mother,  "  to  cry  about  a  frock.  It 
doesn't  matter  a  bit." 

Hilary,  however,  continued  to  cry.  Accidents  of  this  kind 
were  "  carelessness  "  in  the  nursery  —  something  you  couldn't 
possibly  pass  over. 

"  Now,  please,"  said  Molly  Sargent.  "  Why  should  you  cry 
about  it  if  I  don't?  " 

"Don't  you  mind  its  being  spoilt?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  P'waps  it  was  worn  out?  "  Hilary  suggested  hopefully. 

'*  No  —  but  I  can  so  easily  get  another,  you  see.  And  if  you 
spoil  your  eyes  with  crying  you'll  have  to  make  do  with  them. 
You  can't  buy  eyes  in  the  shops,  you  know  —  at  least,  not  the 
sort  of  eyes  you  d  like  to  have." 

"Will  daddy  give  you  some  more  money  to  buy  a  new 
fwock  with?  " 

"  Daddy?  "    She  smiled.     "  Oh,  yes,  of  course  .  .  ." 

"  Does  daddy  give  you  a  lot  of  money?  " 


8  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Well,  not  a  lot,  perhaps." 

"Doesn't  anybody?" 

"Yes.    There's  a  nice  kind  man  at  a  theatre." 

"  What's  theatre?  " 

"A  very  interesting  place.  You'll  see  when  you  grow  big. 
P'raps  you'll  go  and  work  there  some  day,  too,  like  mother. 
And  the  nice  kind  gentleman  will  give  you  lots  of  money." 

"Would  I  have  to  work?" 

"Hard." 

"Nice  work?" 

"  Ever  so  nice  —  the  nicest  ever.  You  wouldn't  ever  be  able 
to  bear  doing  any  other  afterwards.  Shall  I  go  on  with  the 
story?  " 

So  the  tragedy  was  forgotten  and  Molly  Sargent  sat  down 
in  her  ruined  frock  to  finish  the  story  of  Treasure  Island. 


But  things  were  not  always  like  this.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  happy  days  there  would  suddenly  intrude 
some  hint  of  times  less  blissful  to  come.  It  would  arise  from 
different  quarters  —  from  nurse  with  her  raised  finger  enjoin- 
ing quiet,  from  stray  scraps  of  conversation  in  the  nursery, 
from  a  brief,  careless  recognition  —  far  too  brief  and  much 
too  careless  —  of  his  existence  from  his  father,  and  alas!  from 
a  tired,  fretful  note  in  his  mother's  voice.  When  she  came  to 
put  the  finishing  touches  to  nurse's  process  of  "  tucking  up  " 
Hilary  learned  to  tell  at  a  glance  when  it  was  quite  certain 
there  would  be  no  story. 

"Mother's  too  tired,"  she  would  say,  and  go  out  without 
once  looking  back  in  her  pretty  fashion  over  her  shoulder. 
Recalling  these  things  across  the  gulf  of  many  years  Hilary 
had  a  queer  sense  of  compassion  for  the  small  boy  who  had 
wept  hot  and  bitter  tears  into  the  white  pillow  which  smothered 
his  sobs. 

These  were  bad  times,  but  there  were  worse.  There  were 
the  dreadful  days  when  the  sound  of  loud  and  angry  voices 
would  travel  upstairs  and,  with  eyes  wide  with  terror  and  dis- 
may, Hilary  would  steal  out  to  listen.  And  doors  would  bang 
and  nurse  would  come  rushing  up  and  bundle  him  roughly 


DAWN  9 

back  into  the  nursery,  and  soon  the  only  sound  he  would  hear 
in  the  house  would  be  that  of  his  own  sobs.  Not  for  years  did 
Hilary  know  what  these  quarrels  were  about,  but  to  him  they 
were  always  catastrophic,  for  almost  invariably  one  thing  would 
happen  a  few  days  later.  Numerous  trunks  and  boxes  would 
be  packed,  a  cab  would  come  rumbling  up,  his  mother  (a  sub- 
dued, graver  mother  than  usual)  would  come  in  to  wish  him 
good-bye,  and  he  would  hear  her  driven  off  down  the  Square 
into  the  road  beyond. 

For  Hilary  in  the  days  that  followed  the  universe  had  lost 
its  charm:  somehow,  things  had  cheapened.  Across  all  the 
gladness  of  life  a  heavy  veil  had  been  flung,  so  that  the  days 
were  rather  like  those  winter  mornings  when  a  thick  fog  shut 
out  the  evergreens  in  the  Square  garden :  it  was  hard  to  believe 
they  had  ever  been  there.  Only,  these  days,  the  fog  did  not 
lift:  one  caught  not  even  the  faintest  glimpse  of  the  ever- 
greens. .  .  . 

5 

But  presently,  when  he  least  expected  it,  his  mother  would 
return,  and  from  a  sad  little  boy  with  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
Hilary  would  become  the  happiest  child  in  London.  For  after 
these  absences  Molly  Sargent  would  always  seem  to  be  very 
glad  to  be  home  again:  she  would  come  into  the  night-nursery 
with  her  store  of  tales,  and  into  the  day-nursery,  where  she 
would  teach  Hilary  the  jolliest  new  games,  caring  not  a  scrap 
that  in  her  role  as  a  lion  or  tiger  she  might  tear  her  pretty 
frocks,  or  as  the  Beanstalk  or  Giant  might  bump  her  curly 
head.  But  suddenly  there  would  be  nurse  again,  enjoining 
quiet.  His  mother  was  busy  and  must  not  be  disturbed,  and 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not  he  must  learn  to  play  by  himself. 
"Wy,  no  other  child  in  London's  got  as  many  toys  to  play 
with  as  you,"  she  would  say,  more  often  than  not  provoked  to 
the  sharp  shaking  of  a  rebellious  shoulder,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what'll  become  of  you." 

Hilary  didn't  care.  And  as  for  the  bit  about  the  toys  he  had 
heard  it  far  too  often  to  be  impressed  by  it.  Moreover,  he  was 
in  no  mood  to  be  chastened  by  the  woes  of  other  small  boys. 
His  own  were  far  too  tumultuous. 

Gradually   Mrs.   Sargent's  journeys   grew   more   frequent, 


10  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

the  intervals  of  absence  longer,  and  Hilary's  sense  of  desola- 
tion deepened.  For  his  father  seemed  to  become  more  silent 
every  day  and  less  and  less  inclined  to  pay  attention  to  an 
inquisitive  little  boy  whose  questions  were  obviously  a  source 
of  great  annoyance  to  grown-up  people. 

Yet  they  were  kind,  sometimes,  and  gave  him  information 
unasked.  (Not  his  father,  of  course,  but  Annie  and  nurse.) 
There  was,  for  instance,  the  surprising  day  when  nurse  had 
explained  his  mother's  absences  by  saying  she  was  an  "  hac- 
tress  "  (which  told  him  nothing  at  all)  and  that  she  was  in 
Americy  (which  told  him  very  little  more,  since  neither  Annie 
nor  nurse  knew  anything  at  all  about  Americy,  save  that  it  was 
a  long  way  off  and  that  you  never  went  there  unless  you  were 
a  good  child  and  refrained  from  asking  questions). 

There  was,  too,  another  day,  more  surprising  still,  when 
Annie  showed  him  a  photograph  in  one  of  the  sixpenny 
weeklies  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  who  it  was.  To  be  per- 
fectly candid,  Hilary,  at  first,  did  not.  No  memory  of  the  past 
jumped  out  at  him  of  this  woman  with  the  floating  hair,  the 
wide  scared  eyes  and  the  bunch  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers 
caught  up  against  her  breast.  Annie  had  laughed. 

"  'E  doesn't  know  'is  own  mother  w'en  'e  sees  'er,"  she  had 
said.  "  'Pon  my  word,  Master  'Ilary,  you  are  a  one." 

"But  what  does  she  look  like  that  for?"  Hilary  had  de- 
manded, and  it  was  nurse,  not  Annie,  who  explained. 

"Because  she's  pretendin'  to  be  Hawphelia,"  she  told  him. 
"And  (condescendingly)  Hawphelia  had  to  look  like  that" 

"  Who  was  Hawphelia?  "  Hilary  asked. 

Oh,  someone  in  Shakespeare  —  someone  who  had  to  go 
mad,  nurse  thought,  and  the  idea  of  his  mother  having  to 
pretend  to  be  someone  who  "  had  to  go  mad  "  haunted  Hilary 
for  the  rest  of  the  week,  when  he  found  enough  courage  to 
show  the  paper  containing  the  photograph  to  his  father  who 
instantly  threw  it  angrily  into  the  corner. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  looking  at  these  papers,"  he  shouted. 
"  Never  let  me  see  you  with  one  again." 

"  All  wite,"  said  Hilary,  "  but  who,  please,  was  Hawphelia?  " 

"  It's  not  //awphelia,  but  Ophelia." 

"  But  nurse  said  .  .  ." 

"  Never  mind  what  nurse  said." 


DAWN  11 

"And  why,  please,  did  Miss  Ophelia  have  to  go  mad?  " 

But  instead  of  answering  Ralph  Sargent  had  walked  over  to 
the  corner  where  the  paper  had  fallen  and  picked  it  up. 
Smoothing  out  the  sheet  he  stood  for  a  few  seconds  gazing  at 
the  photograph;  and  presently  he  said  a  strange  thing. 

"  Ophelia  ought  to  be  fair  and  not  dark."  Then  he  tore 
out  the  photograph  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

The  boy  added  this  strange  item  to  the  information  he  had 
acquired  from  nurse,  for  nothing  else,  apparently,  was  forth- 
coming from  this  new  quarter.  For  years  afterwards  Ophelia, 
to  Hilary,  was  just  "someone  in  Shakespeare  who  had  to  go 
mad  and  who  ought  to  be  fair." 


CHAPTER  TWO 


IN  the  matter  of  stories  some  children  have  all  the  luck.  .  .  . 
Little  Helena  Morden  had  none  at  all.  She  would  have 
loved  those  poems  and  stories  Molly  Sargent  told  to 
Hilary,  but  Mrs.  Morden  knew  nothing  at  all  of  Stevenson, 
and  if  it  had  been  otherwise  it  is  extremely  doubtful  if  she 
would  have  passed  on  her  knowledge  to  Helena.  For  to  begin 
with,  Agatha  Morden  was  not  that  "  sort "  of  woman,  and  un- 
like Hilary,  Helena  was  not  an  only  child.  Helena  had  two 
brothers  and  two  sisters,  and  even  Molly  Sargent  would  have 
admitted  that  the  difference  between  one  child  and  five  is,  for 
all  practical  purposes,  unbridgable.  Besides,  Mrs.  Morden 
had  not  wanted  any  children  at  all,  though  she  had  wanted  to 
get  married.  At  twenty-one  she  had  accepted  Arthur  Morden 
because  he  was  the  first  person  who  had  asked  her,  and  because 
she  could  never  quite  forget  that  she  had  five  other  sisters, 
four  of  them  her  senior  and  all  of  them  unmarried.  No  other 
fact  could  have  made  her  overlook  the  obvious  drawbacks  of 
Arthur  Morden's  position  (he  was  the  Manager  of  the  Wands- 
worth  branch  of  a  big  London  bank)  and  of  his  salary,  which 
was  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year.  But  these  were  facts  which 
her  father  and  mother  saw  with  uncompromising  clearness, 
and  it  took  Agatha  a  couple  of  years  to  overcome  their  objec- 
tions to  so  poor  an  alliance.  But  she  had  the  ultimate  satisfac- 
tion of  reading  a  column  and  a  half  about  herself  in  the  local 
paper  and  of  wearing  white  satin  and  orange-blossoms,  after 
which  she  retired  to  a  ridiculously  small  house  off  the  Wands- 
worth  High  Street  and  wondered  if  "  this  "  was  romance.  Two 
years  of  married  life  brought  her  little  beyond  several  financial 
crises  and  two  children  —  a  girl  and  a  boy.  The  children  she 
accepted  philosophically,  as  one  of  the  penalties  and  in- 
conveniences of  marriage,  so  that  a  legend  grew  up  in  the 

12 


DAWN  13 

Burke  family  that  "  dear  Agatha  was  such  a  splendid  mother." 
The  financial  crises  were  much  less  amenable  to  philosophy, 
and  after  a  time  Agatha  ceased  her  struggle  to  prevent  romance 
from  flying  out  of  the  window.  It  was  absurd  to  expect 
romance  on  their  ridiculous  salary,  when  there  was  a  position 
to  keep  up  and  two  children  to  provide  for.  Romance,  sizing 
up  the  situation,  sought  for  itself  a  more  promising  abode 
and  Agatha  was  left  with  her  babies  and  money-troubles. 

When  romance  had  flown  to  so  remote  a  spot  that,  as  far  as 
the  Mordens  were  concerned,  it  was  for  all  time  out  of  earshot, 
Arthur  fell  suddenly  ill  —  and  the  situation  was  saved.  For 
medical  opinion  having  agreed  that  Agatha's  husband  must 
live  in  the  country,  the  Burke  influence  exerted  itself  to  the 
extent  of  finding  him  a  post  in  the  bank  at  Rattenby,  in  the 
West  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  and  here,  with  their  two  children 
and  household  effects,  the  Mordens  moved,  and  here,  ten 
months  later,  Helena,  not  rapturously  welcomed,  made  her 
entrance  into  the  world. 

Whilst  Helena  was  still  a  baby  in  arms,  Walter  was  born, 
and  before  he  could  run,  came  Lucy,  whom  Providence  luckily 
decided  should  be  the  "  baby  "  of  the  family.  Five  children 
in  seven  years  were  more  than  even  Agatha's  philosophy  could 
endure;  had  there  been  any  more  she  would  have  grown 
resentful.  These  things  went  by  luck,  she  reflected,  for  though 
her  mother  had  married  at  twenty-one  and  had  a  large  family, 
she  was  twenty-six  when  her  first  child  was  born.  Five  years 
of  freedom !  How  bitterly,  at  times,  Agatha,  the  "  splendid 
mother,"  begrudged  them  to  her!  And  then,  to  make  the 
"  luck  "  more  pronounced,  grandmamma  Burke  had  married 
money.  .  .  . 

2 

Out  there  on  the  breezy  moors,  however,  the  five  little 
Mordens  grew  strong  and  healthy;  life  made  less  demands 
upon  their  mother  here  than  in  London,  and  Arthur's  health 
grew  slowly  normal.  Life,  which  had  begun  to  smile  again, 
broke  into  a  positive  guffaw  when  the  death  of  Agatha's  father 
enriched  the  Morden  exchequer  to  the  extent  of  eighty  pounds 
a  year.  Agatha,  heart-broken,  went  up  to  town  for  the  funeral, 
but  she  wore  a  new  frock  for  the  first  time  in  two  years,  and 


14  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

during  the  ceremony  in  the  parish  church  at  Putney,  tried 
hard  not  to  let  her  thoughts  dwell  too  fervently  upon  the  will 
that  was  to  be  read  when  they  returned  to  the  house.  But  with 
five  small  children  it  was  enormously  difficult  not  to  think 
of  these  things. 

Helena  was  barely  six  when  the  big  house  at  Putney  was 
given  up  and  grandmamma  Burke,  in  widow's  weeds,  came  to 
make  her  home  at  Rattenby-on-the-Moors.  Of  course  there 
were  Agatha's  unmarried  sisters  to  provide  for  and  a  whole 
host  of  small  grandchildren,  but  grandmamma  Burke,  none 
the  less,  was  a  splendid  investment  and  neither  Arthur  nor 
Agatha  proposed  to  dispute  her  tyrannous  sway  over  their 
household.  Besides,  Agatha  was  devoted  to  her  mother.  .  .  . 


Gradually,  as  Helena  grew  up,  there  came  to  be  a  consensus 
of  opinion  that  she  was  a  "  difficult  "  child.  It  was  her  mother 
who  said  of  her  at  the  age  of  ten  that  she  had  no  "  natural 
feeling,"  a  statement  based  chiefly,  it  must  be  confessed,  upon 
her  refusal  to  weep  over  grandmamma  Burke's  death  and  upon 
her  rebellious  attitude  towards  the  wearing  of  decent  mourning. 
("I  hate  black,"  Helena  said,  "it  makes  me  feel  dismal!  " 
As  though  one  should  not  be  dismal,  or  at  least  look  dismal, 
when  a  member  of  one's  family  had  recently  died!) 

But  Helena's  recollection  of  her  grandmother  was  of  a 
distinctly  tiresome  old  lady  who  wore  spotless  caps  threaded 
with  mauve  ribbon,  and  who  said  repeatedly  to  Helena's 
mother,  "Agatha,  can't  you  really  keep  the  children  quieter? 
I'm  sure  when  you  were  all  little  you  weren't  allowed  to  make 
so  much  noise."  Helena,  looking  at  her  grandmother  out  of 
those  big,  frank  eyes  of  hers,  used  to  suppose  it  was  all  too 
long  ago  for  her  to  remember  anything  very  definite  about  it, 
for,  to  Helena,  grandmamma  Burke  was  a  very  old  lady  indeed. 
(Poor  soul,  she  was  only  seventy -two  when  she  died,  though 
she  did  look  more.)  Perhaps  it  was  because  it  was  upon 
Helena  that  this  unreasonable  request  for  quietude  pressed 
most  harshly ;  invariably  it  was  she  upon  whom  Agatha,  fussily 
maternal,  urged  the  necessity  for  less  noisy  games.  That  it  was 
mainly  Helena  who  invented  them  affected  the  question  in 


DAWN  15 

nowise.  One  had  to  play  at  something,  and  of  course  every- 
body knew  (save  grandmamma  Burke)  that  all  the  really  good 
games  were  frightfully  noisy! 

In  one  way  and  another  Helena  spent  much  deep  speculation 
upon  the  subject  of  grandmamma  Burke  —  or,  rather,  upon  the 
subject  of  old  age  as  exemplified  in  that  lady.  It  must  be, 
she  would  think,  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  get  old  —  as  old  as 
that.  She  used  to  wonder  what  it  felt  like  to  want  to  sit  all 
day  by  the  fireside,  distressed  by  the  slightest  noise  and  in- 
convenienced by  hands  which  trembled  so  much  that  at  dinner 
you  sometimes  dropped  your  knife  and  fork  three  or  four  times 
during  the  meal.  Grandmamma  Burke  —  so  Helena's  mother 
told  her  —  had,  in  her  day,  been  a  beauty,  and  before  her 
eighteenth  birthday  three  gentlemen  had  asked  permission  to 
marry  her.  It  used  to  amaze  Helena  that  it  should  have  been 
necessary  to  ask  permission,  for  Helena's  only  idea  of  maturity 
was  the  freedom  to  do  exactly  as  one  liked  just  whenever  one 
liked.  But  success,  according  to  the  maternal  recital,  had 
not  waited  upon  any  one  of  the  intrepid  three  —  and  it  was 
quite  another  whom  grandmamma  Burke  at  twenty-one  had 
been  permitted  to  marry,  and  she  had  been  taken,  a  very  lovely 
bride,  to  a  big  house  in  Putney,  in  those  far-off  days  when 
Putney  had  meant  decent  seclusion  and  the  heath  at  the  top 
of  the  hill.  .  .  .  Critically  regarding  her  grandmother, 
Helena  would  piously  hope  that  her  mother  was  telling  the 
truth;  for  of  the  alleged  beauty  the  child,  now,  could  see 
not  a  trace.  Grandmamma  Burke  was  become  only  a  shriv- 
elled, wrinkled  old  lady,  with  a  wig  and  no  teeth  —  save  those 
which  glared  so  horridly  at  you  from  the  tumbler  on  the 
dressing-table  when  you  went  in  to  say  "  Good  morning." 
And  the  wrinkles,  Helena  had  heard  cook  say  (who  knew  all 
about  these  things)  were  only  due  to  the  powder  and  "  cos- 
mics  "  grandmamma  Burke  had  used  when  she  was  engaged  in 
being  a  beauty. 

However,  "  cosmics "  or  no  "  cosmics,"  one  night  grand- 
mamma Burke  took  it  into  her  head  to  die  —  quite  decently, 
in  her  bed,  and  everyone  (save  Helena)  wept  as  though  they 
were  heart-broken.  Helena  was  enormously  puzzled  by  this 
unexpected  and  overwhelming  display  of  grief.  She  was  far 
too  deeply  interested  to  have  time  or  desire  for  tears,  and,  in 


16  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

any  case,  she  had  not  loved  grandmamma  Burke  and  was 
fairly  certain  that  grandmamma  Burke  had  not  loved  her. 
And  small  wonder,  for  after  all,  even  if  one  is  hairless  and 
toothless,  and  well  on  the  way  towards  the  seventy-third 
milestone  of  life,  it  is  not  altogether  pleasant  to  be  reminded 
that  one  has  at  least  one  foot  firmly  planted  in  the  grave, 
nor  exactly  exhilarating  to  be  requested  to  answer  embarrassing 
questions  concerning  that  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time 
when  one  was  young  and  didn't  object  to  noise!  Helena  felt 
vaguely  that  she  was  a  tactless  child  and  did  not  blame  grand- 
mamma Burke  in  the  very  least  for  not  loving  her,  but  she 
couldn't  pretend  to  be  sorry  she  was  dead.  She  was  only 
enormously  relieved  that  she  would  no  longer  have  to  rack  her 
brains  to  think  of  quiet  games,  nor  watch  that  terrific  tragi- 
comic struggle  with  a  knife  and  fork.  .  .  . 

When  grandmamma  Burke's  will  was  read  it  was  found  that 
she  had  left  Helena's  brothers  and  sisters  an  annuity,  upon 
their  coming  of  age,  of  fifty  pounds  each.  Helena  had  been 
left  out.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  said  loftily,  answering  one  of  the  pros- 
pective capitalists,  not  over-generous  references  to  her  wretch- 
edly penniless  condition,  "  I  don't  want  her  money.  When  I 
grow  up  I  shall  marry  someone  who  has  plenty  and  go  to  live 
in  a  palace.  I  didn't  love  grandmamma  Burke  a  bit.  Neither 
did  you,  only  you're  all  too  sneaky  to  say  so.  But  I'm  glad 
she's  dead,  and  I  hope  she  won't  go  to  heaven,  so  there!  " 

Nevertheless,  mutinously  regarding  the  four  bloated  cap- 
italists who  were  her  brothers  and  sisters,  Helena  reflected 
that,  after  all,  perhaps  she  had  repeated  that  phrase  of  cook's 
about  the  one  foot  in  the  grave  a  bit  too  often.  For,  sup- 
posing she  didn't  marry  someone  with  plenty  of  money  and 
go  to  live  in  a  palace?  Money  was  a  very  serious  business. 
You  couldn't  really  get  on  in  life  without  it.  Helena  was 
quite  sure  of  these  things,  for  she  had  heard  her  mother  say 
so  repeatedly. 

4 

She  said  it  again  that  evening  after  the  reading  of  grand- 
mamma Burke's  will.  Secretly,  Agatha  thought  that  cutting 
out  of  Helena  was  unnecessarily  spiteful  of  her  mother,  though 


DAWN  17 

nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  say  so.  As  she  stood  there 
brushing  out  her  long  dark  hair,  touched  only  here  and  there 
as  yet  with  grey,  Agatha's  outlook  upon  Helena's  future  was 
a  gloomy  one. 

"Oh,  lord,"  growled  the  man  in  the  big,  brass  bed  —  the 
bed  Helena  always  used  to  think  it  must  need  a  ladder  to  climb 
into  — "  What  a  time  you  are!  What's  the  good  of  worrying? 
Ten  to  one  she'll  find  somebody  to  marry  her.  The  Mordens 
are  a  good-looking  lot,  as  that  Ellingham  woman  said  the 
other  day.  .  .  .  Do  hurry  up  and  put  out  the  light." 

He  had  forgotten  the  time  when  he  had  loved  to  watch 
Agatha  as  she  stood  combing  out  the  long  dark  strands  of  her 
hair.  Both  of  them  had  forgotten  a  great  number  of  things 
besides  that. 


CHAPTER  THREE 


HILARY'S  mother  never  came  back  from  America. 
That  one  letter  came  for  him  on  his  seventh  birth- 
day and  no  message  ever  again.  He  forgot,  presently, 
to  look  for  any,  and  grew  tired  eventually  of  asking  the  ques- 
tions no  one  was  ever  prepared  to  answer.  They  let  him 
think  between  them  that  his  mother  was  dead.  The  servants 
may  have  known  better  (servants  always  do),  and  in  any  case 
they  had,  as  they  would  have  told  you,  their  "  instructions." 

Life,  in  its  way  of  course,  went  on  being  interesting.  A 
tall,  angular  woman  came  to  the  big  house  in  the  Square  for 
two  hours  each  morning  to  teach  Hilary,  as  nurse  said,  "  his 
letters  and  not  before  it  was  time,  too."  Miss  Atwell  was 
kind  and  on  the  whole  good-humoured,  but  Hilary  disliked 
the  way  her  front  teeth  grew  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
drew  back  her  dark  brown  hair.  Two  other  faults  Hilary 
found  with  her:  the  first  that  she  regarded  his  passion  for 
interrogation  with  scarcely  less  disfavour  than  nurse  and 
Annie;  and  the  second  that  she  knew  very  little  about  the 
man  called  Stevenson  and  did  not  seem  to  share  Hilary's 
opinion  of  the  wonderful  things  he  had  written. 

Then  suddenly  the  centre  of  life  shifted  to  Sussex  and  an 
old  rambling  house  with  long  windows  from  which  you  could 
step  straight  out  into  the  garden.  This  old  house  had  a  garden 
which  shamed  the  London  Square  into  extinction,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  it  grew  a  long  line  of  poplars  that  sang  all  day  and 
all  night  in  the  breeze  —  a  song  that  was  like  summer  rain  on 
dry  leaves.  Here  in  the  country  he  might  keep  a  cat  and  dog, 
though  nurse  disliked  both  tremendously,  but  especially  Flossie, 
the  cat  —  a  "  narsty  'orrid  creature  she  couldn't  abide  the  feel 
of."  A  ridiculous  statement,  this,  to  Hilary,  who  loved  noth- 

18 


DAWN  19 

ing  better  than  to  rub  his  face  against  Flossie's  soft  black  fur 
or  to  feel  the  warmth  of  her  body  working  insidiously  through 
his  knickerbockers. 

The  country  revealed  several  new  traits  in  nurse's  character. 
There  were  so  many  things  that  lived  which  she  disliked. 
Frogs  and  toads  (of  which  she  told  dreadful  tales)  and  moths 
of  every  description.  These  latter  (poor,  unhappy  creatures!) 
she  would  pursue  around  the  ceiling  at  night  with  any  article 
of  clothing  which  happened  to  come  first  to  hand,  whilst 
Hilary  watched  with  big  eyes  full  of  a  horrible  fear  that  they 
would  hurt  themselves  against  the  candle-flame  and  fall  to 
the  ground  with  their  delicate  wings  scorched  and  maimed  — 
a  consideration,  however,  which  did  not  seem  to  disturb 
nurse  in  the  least. 

In  the  place  of  Miss  Atwell  (who  had  preferred  London  to 
Sussex  and  to  whom  Hilary  had  consequently  had  to  say  good- 
bye) a  girl  with  a  bright  face  and  dancing  brown  eyes  came 
regularly  each  morning  from  the  village  to  deal  with  this 
business  of  lessons.  Ursula  Yeomans  did  not  resuscitate  the 
bead  and  wool-mat  industries  beloved  of  Miss  Atwell,  of 
London,  and  (what  was  far  better)  she  knew  and  loved  all 
those  things  of  the  man  called  Stevenson.  She  taught  him, 
too,  the  names  of  birds  and  trees  and  of  wild  flowers;  and 
disposed  of  nurse's  wild  flights  of  fancy  regarding  frogs  and 
toads,  both  of  which  turned  out  to  be  quite  nice  creatures 
that  (if  you  wished  and  when  they  were  tiny)  you  might  keep 
in  a  bath.  Ursula  Yeomans,  too,  it  was,  who  discovered  to 
Hilary  the  interesting  fact  that  butterflies  had  names  and 
appeared  at  different  seasons,  so  that  it  became  a  matter  of 
delirious  excitement  to  find  a  May  butterfly  out  in  June.  Hil- 
ary's ideas  of  capture,  however,  never  matured,  because  Miss 
Yeomans  considered  it  cruel.  ("  Such  a  tiny  life,  Hilary. 
Don't  you  think  they're  entitled  to  every  bit  of  it?  "  And 
Hilary  did.)  So  he  learned  to  stalk  his  butterfly  and  study  it 
at  short  distances,  and  grew  to  be  terribly  scornful  of  other 
small  boys  who  rushed  wildly  about  with  nets. 

This  new  free  life  in  the  country  had  grown  to  be  most 
tremendously  interesting  when  Aunt  Lavinia  came  and 
spoiled  it 


20  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


Lavinia  Sargent  was  a  narrow  woman  —  the  outcome  of  a 
narrow  creed  —  whose  life  was  controlled  by  two  passions,  the 
one  for  her  brother,  the  other  for  her  God.  Not  that  Lavinia 
would  have  admitted  that  they  were  "passions"  at  all  (you 
would  not  find  the  word  in  her  vocabulary)  nor  that  they 
should  be  put  in  that  order.  Other  people  might  have  enter- 
tained doubts  as  to  their  eternal  salvation,  but  not  so  Lavinia 
Sargent.  She  knew  the  day  and  hour  when  she  had  "  crossed 
the  line,"  when  for  ever  she  had  separated  herself  from  the 
ungodly  and  stepped  out  boldly  along  the  narrow  path  which 
led,  she  was  assured,  to  heaven  —  a  dull  place,  it  is  true,  as 
Lavinia  pictured  it.  But  she  would  not  mind  the  dulness: 
all  her  life  beauty  and  happiness  had  been  suspect,  and  if  she 
could  she  would  have  swept  the  whole  world  of  art  into 
oblivion.  Cromwell  was  for  her  the  saviour  of  England:  a 
vile  print  of  him  hung  in  her  room  where  each  morning  he 
saluted  the  new  day  with  a  heavy  scowl  of  disapproval.  Dar- 
win, Huxley,  Spencer  and  the  German  philosophers  were  all 
blasphemers  against  the  Truth  —  to  Lavinia,  just  men  "who 
thought  they  knew  better  than  Genesis."  To  have  tea  with 
Lavinia  Sargent  was  invariably  to  be  put  in  one  of  these  two 
groups:  there  was  no  possibility  of  escape  and  no  appeal. 
If  you  were  a  person  of  sense  you  saw  that  at  once,  for  there 
was  literally  nothing  to  argue  about;  you  were  either  fit  to  be 
mentioned  in  the  same  breath  as  Cromwell  or  you  were  not. 
Generally,  of  course,  you  were  not. 

It  took  no  more  than  two  minutes  for  Lavinia  to  consign 
Mary  Hilary  (who  became  Mary  Sargent,  and  Hilary's  mother) 
to  her  proper  group,  for  Mary  detested  Cromwell  and  in  her 
innocence  she  said  so  directly  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  vile  print 
of  him  in  Lavinia's  bedroom. 

"  Oh,  you  have  that  awful  picture,"  she  had  remarked 
cheerily,  "  I  always  think  it  was  so  morbid  of  him  to  insist  on 
the  painter  including  the  wart.  '  Wart  and  all '  was  the  famous 
phrase,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Cromwell,"  Lavinia  had  informed  her,  "  was  as  his  Cre- 
ator made  him." 

And  Mary  had  said,  "  Oh,  I  know,  poor  creature,  the  wart 


DAWN  21 

wasn't  his  fault."  Then  she  had  laughed  and  the  merry  gleam 
had  danced  madly  in  her  grey  eyes,  and  Lavinia,  very  dig- 
nified, had  led  the  way  downstairs. 

But  because  life  was  so  full  of  a  number  of  things  Mary  had 
thought  no  more  of  the  incident.  She  was  sorry  for  Lavinia, 
because  she  must  find  life  so  dull;  and  she  was  rather  sorry, 
too,  for  Ralph,  because  she  supposed  it  could  not  be  pleasant 
for  him  to  have  such  an  impossible  sister.  But  she  resolutely 
refused  to  see  in  that  unsuccessful  visit  any  omen  for  the 
future.  Which  was  just  as  well,  since  she  was  in  love  with 
Ralph  Sargent  and  he  with  her,  and  they  intended,  Lavinia 
notwithstanding,  to  marry  each  other. 

But  from  that  day  Lavinia  bitterly  opposed  this  preposterous 
friendship  of  her  brother's  with  Mary  Hilary,  the  actress, 
using  arguments  that  to  her  were  unanswerable.  Later,  when 
the  engagement  she  could  not  prevent  was  announced,  she 
wore  upon  her  face  the  expression  of  a  martyr,  which,  however, 
did  not  prevent  her  from  hating  Mary  Hilary.  "  Once  an 
actress,  always  an  actress,"  she  said  when  the  marriage  took 
place,  and  she  went  on  saying  it  at  various  intervals  ever 
afterwards.  But  at  first  it  really  did  look  as  though  she  were 
wrong,  because  Ralph  and  Mary  were  so  obviously  happy. 
Ralph  thought  his  sister  and  her  precious  phrase  ridiculous: 
for  a  woman  in  love  is  —  just  a  woman  in  love.  At  heart 
when  you  get  right  down  to  fundamentals  all  women  are  the 
same.  He  said  (and  thought)  that  of  Mary  Hilary,  whom  the 
world  had  called  a  genius,  and  half-truth  as  it  was  it  did  for 
some  time  look  surprisingly  like  a  complete  one.  Hilary  was 
born  after  eleven  months'  glorious  happiness,  seven  of  which 
had  been  spent  in  France  and  Italy,  out  of  reach  of  Lavinia 
and  her  angles  (alike  of  religion  and  personality)  which  Mary 
found  later  could  hurt  you  so  abominably  if  you  happened  to 
encounter  them.  And  Mary  did.  .  .  . 

"  Once  an  actress,  always  an  actress,"  Lavinia  said,  when  a 
charity  performance  lured  Mary  back  to  the  stage  as  Beatrice. 
She  said  it  six  months  later  when  Mary  had  gone  back  to  the 
stage  for  good,  when  her  name,  flaring  out  from  boardings  and 
'buses,  offended  her  eyesight.  And  when  Ralph  Sargent  grew 
tired  of  the  phrase  she  found  other  ways  of  saying  the  same 
thing.  At  least  she  would  be  heard. 


22  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

But  Ralph  Sargent  knew,  without  his  sister's  reminders,  that 
this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Nothing  was  ever  going 
to  be  the  same  again.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  hated  the 
theatre:  the  thought  of  it,  with  its  critical,  appraising  eyes, 
was  a  perpetual  thorn  in  the  flesh.  His  work  (which  was 
scientific,  and  appallingly  dull  to  Mary,  to  whom  he  would 
talk  about  it!)  began  to  suffer:  his  temper  took  on  an  edge. 
Lavinia  prayed  for  him  with  fervour  and  her  martyred  ex- 
pression daily  deepened.  For  Mary,  the  return  to  the  old 
loved  life  meant  hours  of  study  and  long  rehearsals.  Molly 
at  her  work  was  temperamental:  if  a  part  went  wrong  she 
was  nervy  and  distrait;  she  came  back  from  the  theatre  tired 
and  just  a  little  irritable,  and  she  missed  the  accustomed 
ministrations  of  the  old  servants  who,  in  the  days  that  were 
past,  had  always  waited  up  for  her  and  who,  somehow,  had 
never  seemed  tired  —  superhuman,  sleepless  beings  who  made 
her  comfortable  with  cushions  and  brought  her  delicious  things 
to  drink.  But  the  big  house  in  the  Square  was  icy  in  its  re- 
ception of  her;  her  suppers  were  cold,  dismal  affairs  —  hor- 
rible anti-climaxes.  Presently  she  took  to  having  supper  out 
—  one  of  a  gay  choice  little  party  of  folk  who  with  langhing 
lips  blew  lightly  at  the  foam  on  the  cup  of  life  and  sipped  at 
it  happily.  But  the  next  morning  there  would  be  Ralph's 
grave  face  (and  Lavinia's  martyred  one)  silently  rebuking  her, 
and  she  knew  that  she  had  encountered  the  anti-climax  after 
all.  It  might  be  dodged,  but  it  was  not  to  be  escaped;  it 
was  always  waiting  for  her  just  round  the  corner.  It  always 
would  be  waiting  for  her,  and  all  the  artist  in  Mary  rose  in 
rebellion  against  its  importunity.  Nevertheless,  she  made 
praiseworthy  efforts  and  to  please  Ralph  would  have  intervals 
of  "  rest,"  when  feverishly  they  would  endeavour  to  get  back 
to  their  old  footing,  only  to  become  dreadfully  aware  that  the 
thing  was  impossible. 

The  thought  of  Hilary  steadied  the  woman,  at  least.  Sun- 
ning herself  in  his  ready  adoration,  delighting  in  his  eternal 
appreciation,  she  would  almost  believe  that  she  could  bear  to 
turn  her  back  for  ever  upon  the  work  she  loved  —  would 
imagine  she  could  recapture  the  wonder  and  glory  of  those 
first  two  years  of  married  happiness.  But  they  had  slipped 


DAWN  23 

so  far  behind,  and  in  front  of  her  now  stretched  always  the 
blue-misted  savannahs  of  fame  and  ambition,  filling  her  with 
a  nostalgia  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  completely  every  other 
feeling. 

Lavinia  was  right.  "  Once  an  actress,  always  an  actress." 
And  yet,  all  the  time  there  was  the  thought  of  the  child  drag- 
ging her  back. 

Presently  the  inevitable  happened.  They  began  to  quarrel. 
Even  Hilary  could  not  prevent  that.  Dreadful  quarrels  they 
were  —  the  quarrels  of  people  with  passionate  natures  and 
intense  emotions.  Molly  was  horrified  at  the  things  she  said, 
and  she,  to  Ralph,  was  "  theatrical,"  a  woman  who  "  made 
scenes."  Both  alike  were  aghast  at  the  new,  strange  vista 
opening  up  before  them  —  and  neither  had  the  strength  to 
turn  in  the  opposite  direction.  They  dragged  each  other 
along  the  fresh  paths,  blind  with  passion  and  emotion,  and 
knew  that  nothing  and  no  one  could  save  them.  Their  very 
love  for  each  other  (struggling,  miserable,  at  its  last  gasp)  was 
but  an  additional  obstacle  in  the  way;  it  was  too  intense, 
too  feverish;  and  it  entirely  prevented  either  of  them  from 
getting  a  clear  view  of  their  path  or  destination. 

The  end  came  with  Molly's  American  tour  and  the  renewal 
of  a  friendship  she  had  snapped  with  determination  when  she 
first  met  Ralph  Sargent.  Her  original  contract  finished,  Mary 
signed  another  and  wrote  home  when  she  was  irretrievably 
committed  to  several  months'  further  stay  in  America.  Ralph 
Sargent  knew  all  about  that  old  interrupted  friendship,  and 
knew,  too,  that  it  was  with  this  man  she  was  playing  in  America, 
so  that  when  the  bomb  fell  he  was  not  altogether  unprepared 
for  it.  Molly's  letter  was  unequivocal.  It  begged  quite 
frankly  for  freedom  and  it  gave  just  as  frankly,  the  reasons 
why  Ralph  should  take  steps  to  procure  it  for  her. 

And  Ralph  would  not.  He  would  do  anything  but  that. 
He  would  have  taken  her  back  if  she  would  come.  But  she 
would  not.  She  had  left  him  because  he  had  made  life  (as  she 
understood  life)  unendurable  for  her,  or  they,  perhaps,  had 
made  life  unendurable  for  each  other.  In  either  case  the  re- 
sult was  precisely  the  same.  Yet  if  Molly  would  not  belong 
to  him,  at  least  she  should  not,  lawfully,  belong  to  any  other 


24  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

man.  His  mind  shut  fast  on  that  thought:  it  never  escaped 
him. 

What  correspondence  there  was  took  place  between  two 
firms  of  solicitors.  It  was  business-like,  impersonal  and  con- 
cerned not  in  the  very  least  with  love  and  the  things  of  love. 
But  it  had  the  merit  of  brevity.  It  was  soon  over  —  and  after 
that,  silence.  Mary  neither  implored  nor  reproached,  and 
there  were  days  when  Ralph  would  have  given  much  if  she 
had. 

Yet  it  was  astonishing  how  difficult  it  was  to  forget  her  — 
that  radiant  creature  he  was  riot  able  to  keep,  and  often  he 
came  near  to  hating  the  things  which  reminded  him  of  her, 
for  in  his  own  pitiful  fashion  he  loved  her  still  and  knew  that 
he  would  go  on  loving  her  until  life  ran  out,  and  beyond. 
But  he  would  never  forgive  her.  That  was  what  made  it  piti- 
ful —  he  could  love  but  he  could  not  forgive. 

And  Hilary,  because  he  belonged  to  that  great  army  of 
memories,  was  speedily  turned  over  to  other  hands  —  the 
responsibilities  attaching  to  that  small  person  relegated  with 
the  rest  of  the  duties  of  life.  Beyond  an  assurance  that  the 
child  was  well  and  in  capable  hands  he  desired  to  know  nothing 
whatever  about  him.  Briefly  and  unsuccessfully  Ralph  Sar- 
gent had  emerged  into  parenthood;  at  no  time  had  the  experi- 
ment been  wholly  a  success,  and  now  the  episode  had  merely 
to  be  forgotten.  From  this  point  he  turned  his  back  upon 
the  world,  becoming  more  than  ever  absorbed  in  his  books 
and  his  work,  conscious  that  life,  somehow,  had  to  be  got 
through  as  if  Molly  and  he  had  never  met  —  as  if  Love,  in- 
finitely tender-eyed,  had  never  halted  for  them  upon  the  dusty 
highroad  of  the  world.  It  was  difficult,  of  course.  It  would 
always  be  difficult,  for  there  was  Hilary,  and  after  all,  in  La- 
vinia's  homely  phrase,  a  child  isn't  exactly  a  bale  of  goods. 
The  remark  was  not  entirely  a  helpful  contribution  towards  the 
solution  of  the  problem,  but  Lavinia  was  right,  all  the  same. 

For  Hilary,  certainly,  was  not  going  to  make  things  easier. 


Two  years  later  Mary  Hilary  was  found  drowned  in  an  orna- 
mental pond  in  the  grounds  of  an  American  hotel.     The  med- 


DAWN  25 

ical  evidence  showed  that  she  was  expecting  a  child.  The  jury, 
however,  were  kind  and  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  Found 
drowned,"  which  hurt  nobody's  feelings.  Because,  when  it 
happened,  Hilary  was  not  old  enough  to  look  at  the  papers. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


DESPITE  the  insistence  of  the  maternal  legend,  it  was  a 
strange  isolation  of  soul  in  which  Helena  Morden  grew 
up.  Somehow,  she  was  always  "  odd  woman  out." 
Between  her  and  her  brothers  and  sisters  there  could  hardly 
have  been  a  more  decided  cleavage.  If  Agatha  was  to  be  be- 
lieved, she  was  "  no  Burke  "  and  "  no  Morden,"  and  it  was, 
of  course,  an  impertinence  on  your  part  that  you  should  not 
belong  to  one  side  or  the  other  of  your  family.  Agatha  liked 
ordinary  normal  children  because  novelty  was  disturbing  and 
she  did  not  care  to  be  asked  awkward  questions.  There  was 
much  sound  sense,  all  those  years  ago,  behind  that  desire  of 
hers  for  marriage  without  children.  She  did  not  know  and 
never  had  known  what  to  do  with  the  individuality  of  a  child; 
she  did  not  think  children  should  be  "  individuals."  Children 
should  do  what  they  were  told:  they  were  to  be  seen  and  not 
heard.  But  Helena  showed  at  no  time  any  great  liking  for  the 
role  of  audience  and  Agatha  wished  continually  that  she  was 
"  more  like  Gertrude,"  because  you  always  knew  "  where  you 
were  "  with  Gertrude,  and  that  was  such  a  blessing.  Gertrude 
was  a  large,  broad-faced  girl,  phlegmatic  alike  in  appearance 
and  in  temperament,  careful  of  the  conventions  (even  as  a 
child)  and  concerned  for  other  people's  regard;  accepting 
things,  not  so  much  as  they  are,  but  as  they  seemed  to  be  — 
which  was  less  exhausting,  of  course.  It  was  Gertrude  who 
said  scornfully,  "Why,  what  other  colour  should  it  be, 
stupid?"  when  Helena  had  said,  "Isn't  it  lovely  the  grass 
should  be  green?  "  A  world  of  red  grass  to  Gertrude  was  un- 
thinkable (because  grass  wasn't  red),  whilst  to  Helena  it  was 
a  horror  the  world  had  most  marvellously  escaped.  Things 
like  this  yawned  continually  between  Gertrude  and  Helena, 
whilst  between  Helena  and  Lucy  there  was  always  a  good  deal 

26 


DAWN  27 

more  than  the  three  years  which  divided  them  in  age.  Lucy 
(the  phrase  much  later  was  Helena's  own)  was  a  neat  and  tidy 
child  with  a  neat  and  tidy  mind.  Lucy  was  the  beauty  of  the 
family  and  probably  there  never  was  a  time  when  she  was  not 
aware  of  her  "  points,"  since  they  were  continually  discussed 
in  her  presence,  and  grandmamma  Burke,  when  she  was  alive, 
had  Lucy  for  favourite,  and  would  have  you  believe  that  she 
was  an  exact  reproduction  of  herself  at  a  similar  age.  "  Yes, 
and  if  you  don't  look  out  you'll  be  just  like  grandmamma  is 
now.  You  see!  "  Helena  would  gibe  at  her.  Helena  used  to 
think  it  was  a  good  job  God  had  made  Lucy  so  pretty  because 
He  had  made  her  stupid.  People  who  like  the  one  might  not 
really  mind  about  the  other. 

If  the  truth  were  told,  Helena  was  happier  in  her  brothers' 
company  than  in  that  of  either  of  her  sisters,  until  she  began  to 
notice  that  they  spent  much  time  in  pulling  the  wings  off  flies 
and  in  pinning  moths  and  butterflies  between  the  pages  of 
scrap-books,  which  things  they  called  "having  a  hobby." 
When  Helena  remonstrated  with  them  and  said  it  was  cruel, 
they  showed  her  that  as  she  was  a  girl  she  couldn't  possibly 
know  anything  about  it:  all  boys  knew  that  flies  and  moths 
didn't  feel  things.  They  thought  Helena  a  mug  because  when 
she  saw  them  doing  unutterable  things  with  moths  and  flies  her 
face  would  go  white  and  tears  would  well  up  slowly  into  her 
big  blue  eyes.  At  such  moments  all  boys  were  hateful  to  her; 
the  very  word  a  synonym  for  cruelty. 

There  was,  too,  a  dreadful  day  when  she  had  gone  with  her 
mother  and  brothers  into  a  little  tea-shop  in  Rattenby  town, 
where  the  walls  disported  cases  of  moths  of  every  description, 
all  pinned  up  dead  and  helpless  behind  the  glass,  moths  of 
varied  sizes  and  colours,  over  which  Ted  and  Walter  gloated 
and  argued.  Helena,  turning  her  eyes  from  the  sickening  sight, 
found  nothing  to  look  at  but  the  equally  horrid  sight  of  bright- 
plumaged  birds,  stuffed  and  stiff,  all  gazing  out  unseeingly 
upon  that  dingy  little  tea-room  —  all  those  glorious,  beautiful 
things  that  had  loved  freedom  and  the  sweet  summer  air. 
And  Agatha  had  been  angry  because  Helena  would  not  eat 
her  tea. 

"  It  really  is  perfectly  ridiculous,  Arthur,"  she  said  later  to 
Helena's  father.  "  Such  a  fuss  over  a  few  birds  and  things, 


28  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

and  I  don't  believe  she  shed  one  tear  when  grandmamma  Burke 
died.     And  the  trouble  to  get  her  to  wear  her  black  frock!  " 

In  Agatha's  mind  these  two  incidents  came  to  be  ranged  very 
carefully  side  by  side,  and  to  them,  from  time  to  time,  many 
others  quite  similar  were  added.  Affection  or  consideration 
for  animals  and  birds  went  for  nothing  beside  a  constitutional 
inability  to  bewail  the  death  of  one's  grandparents,  and  grad- 
ually there  sprang  into  existence  the  legend  that  Helena  was 
"  heartless,"  devoid  of  all  "  ordinary  feeling."  It  was  a  legend 
that  had  in  it  neither  more  nor  less  of  truth  than  the  average 
legend.  But  it  was  about  this  time  that  there  was  born  in 
Helena  the  first  overwhelming  realisation  of  the  astounding 
indifference  of  perfectly  good  people  towards  the  suffering  of 
animals. 


But  always,  for  Helena,  there  was  one  fact  for  which  she 
could  never  be  sufficiently  grateful  —  and  that  was  the  natural 
beauty  of  her  home.  Four  Cross  House  stood  high  up  on  the 
edge  of  the  moors  of  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire  —  an  old, 
rambling,  inconvenient  house,  buffeted  by  wind  and  rain  and 
kissed  in  summer-time  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  which  deepened 
the  purple  of  the  heather  and  ripened  the  rowan  berries.  From 
her  bedroom  window  Helena  could  look  right  across  the  moor, 
as  it  lay  stretched  out  for  mile  upon  mile,  boundless  and  pri- 
mordial —  a  natural  element  that  for  centuries  had  resisted 
the  efforts  of  mankind  to  subjugate  it.  Very  little,  she  knew, 
would  grow  on  Rattenby  moor.  People  said  of  it  that  it  was 
"  irreclaimable."  You  found  no  startling  patches  of  wheat, 
corn  or  oats  springing  up  here  and  there  among  the  purple 
and  green.  The  heather  sprawled  across  it  and  the  verdant  leaf 
of  the  bilberry  bush.  For  the  rest  there  was  the  sun,  an  "  ever- 
lasting wash  of  air,"  and  that  sense  of  freedom  and  exhilara- 
tion that  she  thought  could  not  be  found  anywhere  else  at  all. 
Nothing  of  the  great  universe  did  the  child  know  beyond  the 
little  village  at  her  feet  and  the  neighbouring  town  of  Rattenby. 
The  crowded,  bustling,  busy  mills  of  the  great  adjacent  cities 
did  not  disturb  her  peace:  she  heard  them  spoken  of  as  vaguely 
as  one  spoke  of  Timbuctoo  —  and  her  idea  of  the  one  was  no 
less  shadowy  than  of  the  other.  For  years  Helena's  world  was 


DAWN  29 

just  that  wind-swept,  sun-kissed  moor  —  black  and  gaunt  in 
winter,  green  with  the  bilberry  leaf  and  purple  with  heather 
when  summer  had  come.  And  so  much  did  these  things  come 
to  mean  to  her  that  for  years  she  imagined  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly live  without  them. 


Of  all  Agatha  Morden's  children  Helena  was  by  far  the  apt- 
est  pupil.  Gertrude  learned,  if  not  with  actual  difficulty,  at 
least  without  enthusiasm,  whilst  Lucy  was  frequently  reduced 
to  tears  even  at  so  early  a  stage  as  the  multiplication  table,  and 
as  long  as  she  lived  was  never  quite  certain  whether  seven 
nines  were  fifty-six  or  sixty-three.  Ted  and  Walter  were  infi- 
nitely more  interested  in  their  questionable  "  hobby  "  and  their 
sports  than  in  the  business  of  study,  but  since  they  were  boys 
and  would  "have  to  have  a  profession,"  a  certain  amount  of 
gentle  paternal  persuasion  was  found  an  excellent  corrective 
to  their  natural  instinct  for  laziness.  As  to  the  girls,  marriage 
was  the  one  profession  which,  in  Agatha's  opinion,  they  could 
honourably  follow.  To  Agatha  the  very  word  "  spinster  "  was 
absurd,  and  she  was  determined  that  it  should  be  used  to  de- 
scribe her  daughters  once  and  once  only  —  upon  that  proud 
occasion  when  she  sat  in  church  and  heard  it  for  the  first  and 
last  time.  "  Gertrude  Alicia  Morden,  spinster,  of  this  parish," 
"  Helena  Burke  Morden,  spinster,  of  this  parish,"  "  Lucy  Ade- 
laide Morden,  spinster,  of  this  parish."  To  Agatha  it  was  so 
extremely  gratifying  she  could  almost  wish  she  had  half  a 
dozen  daughters.  She  would  be  very  fond  of  them  and  proud, 
seeing  them  grown  up  and  suitably  married.  It  was  their 
youth  she  found  so  trying. 

Something  she  found,  too,  that  was  rather  uncanny  about 
Helena's  passion  for  learning.  Of  her  only  among  the  young 
Mordens  was  it  in  any  sense  true  to  say  that  she  loved  her 
books.  She  learned  with  ease  and  had  an  exceptionally  reten- 
tive memory.  Her  English  mistress  wrote  on  her  reports 
(somewhat  to  Agatha's  amusement,  because  what  did  it  mat- 
ter?) that  she  knew  her  Scott,  and  sent  home  an  essay  she  had 
written,  which  began,  "  In  these  days  of  cheap  and  rapid  tran- 
sit. .  .  ."  It  wasn't  all  like  that,  but  it  was  undoubtedly  the 


30  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

opening  which  made  Miss  Denton  write  at  the  bottom  of  the 
essay,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  that  for  so  young  a  child, 
Helena's  vocabulary  is  certainly  remarkable."  Agatha  sup- 
posed it  was,  but,  once  again,  what  did  it  matter,  so  long  as  she 
could  speak  correctly? 

Stories  and  poems  had  for  Helena  a  terrible  fascination; 
the  people  in  them  took  a  firm  hold  upon  her  imagination. 
They  trod  the  moors  with  her,  became  as  intimate  acquaint- 
ances. She  would  stride  along  to  school  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  Glassford  Bell's  "  Queen  Mary  "  or  some  poem  of 
Scott's,  beating  out  the  iambics  with  such  maddening  precision 
that  her  unliterary  brethren  would  tell  her  to  "  cheese  it  "  or  to 
"dry  up  for  Heaven's  sake!  "  She  found  it,  however,  less  a 
matter  of  congratulation  than  of  sorrow  that  she  alone  of  all 
the  Mordens  should  have  any  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of 
English  literature. 


Helena  grew  up  with  a  rapidity  that  surprised  (and  doubtless 
gratified)  her  parents.  She  was  a  "  fine-looking  girl,"  they 
told  one  another:  it  was  a  pity  she  was  so  "  queer,"  so  different 
from  the  rest.  (That  most  of  all  —  that  she  was  "  different.") 
But  they  raised  no  objection  to  her  sitting  for  matriculation, 
and  were  proud  of  her  when  she  took  a  first-class.  After  that, 
however,  they  exhibited  no  sort  of  interest  in  her  studies  and 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  suggestion  that  she  should  go  on  to 
college  and  specialise  in  her  beloved  English.  So  because 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  Helena  at  seventeen  came  home  from 
school  to  take  "her  proper  place  in  the  house,"  as  Gertrude 
had  done.  In  the  course  of  time  she  would  doubtless  marry  — 
as  so  far,  however,  Gertrude  had  not  done.  Visitors  to  Four 
Cross  House  might  have  wondered  how  this  consummation  was 
to  be  brought  about  —  who,  just  precisely,  there  were  for  the 
Morden  girls  to  marry.  Their  immediate  neighbours  were 
childless;  the  Ellinghams,  who  kept  the  low  white  house  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  had  a  large  family  of  girls,  one  of  whom,  as 
Gertrude's  friend,  came  frequently  to  Four  Cross  House  to  tea 
and  bemoaned  the  disadvantage  of  being  "  one  of  seven  and 
no  boys."  Besides  the  Ellinghams  there  were  the  Brown-Fos- 


DAWN  31 

ters,  whose  only  son  was  already  married  and  settled  in  Lon- 
don, the  Evertons,  whose  two  boys  were  still  -at  school,  and  the 
curate,  who  before  coming  to  Rattenby  had  taken  the  liberty  of 
choosing  a  wife  elsewhere.  Looked  at  how  you  would  the  mat- 
rimonial chances  of  Rattenby  seemed  despairingly  remote. 
But  Agatha  would  have  been  ready  for  you,  conceding  the  im- 
possibility of  Rattenby  with  the  blandest  air  in  the  world.  For 
it  was  not  on  Rattenby  that  Agatha  staked  her  hopes,  but  on 
Putney,  where  lived  her  youngest  sister,  Milly,  most  desirably 
and  conveniently  married  to  a  man  who  could  afford  to  main- 
tain her  as  became  a  Burke  residing  within  the  zone  of  the 
Burke  traditions.  With  the  generosity  that  comes  so  readily 
to  the  easy-going  woman  to  whom  the  lines  have  fallen  in 
pleasant  places,  Milly  Meynell  was  willing  to  lend  a  helping 
hand  in  this  matter  of  husband-hunting,  not  unaware  perhaps 
that  the  service  would  cost  her  nothing  at  ail  in  the  way  of 
personal  sacrifice.  And  so  it  came  about,  six  months  before 
Helena  left  school,  that  Gertrude,  a  big  box  of  clothes  and  the 
fervent  hopes  of  her  mother,  travelled  together  up  to  London 
and  down  again  to  Putney.  Of  course  no  one  was  sufficiently 
ill-bred  to  mention  "  marriage,"  but  assuredly  neither  Ger- 
trude nor  Agatha  thought  of  anything  else.  Gertrude  was  her 
mother's  daughter:  she,  too,  would  not  like  to  have  to  remain  a 
spinster.  .  .  . 

And  at  Four  Cross  House  Helena  was  bored.  There  was  not 
even  enough  housework  to  go  round,  even  if  it  had  been  any 
part  of  Agatha's  scheme  to  have  her  daughters  do  a  share  of 
the  work  she  paid  others  to  do.  And  it  was  not:  nothing  an- 
noyed her  more  than  to  find  Helena  in  the  kitchen,  making 
cakes  or  pastry,  though  Helena  did  both  extremely  well  and 
usually  (as  Emily  Bronte  made  the  bread)  with  a  book  propped 
up  before  her.  Paying  calls  with  her  mother,  being  polite 
to  visitors,  struggling  with  small  talk,  Sydney  Smith,  Tito  Mat- 
tei  and  Mendelssohn  in  the  drawing-room,  seemed  to-  Helena 
just  so  many  absolutely  ridiculous  things  to  do  with  life.  She 
fell  back  upon  her  long  moorland  walks,  scoured  the  country 
in  all  weathers  and  a  mackintosh;  and  when  she  was  at  home 
retired  into  her  own  little  world  of  books  where  Agatha,  wor- 
ried and  mystified,  could  never  follow  her.  The  books  she 
deplored  until  one  day  she  came  across  a  little  volume  of  Ten- 


32  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

nyson  lying  face  downwards  on  a  chair  in  Helena's  room,  with 
a  heavily  pencilled  mark  against  that  passage  where  Elaine 
meets  Lancelot. 

.  .  .  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom. 

It  was  the  pencilled  mark,  not  the  poetry,  which  brought  a 
smile  to  Agatha's  mouth,  for  the  thought  came  to  her  that  it 
was  superfluous  to  despair  utterly  (and  matrimonially)  of  a 
girl  who  read  "  this  sort  of  thing." 


It  was  .in  the  June  following  Helena's  eighteenth  birthday 
that  Gertrude  became  engaged  to  Edgar  Holmes,  the  junior 
partner  in  the  old-established  firm  of  Holmes,  Raiding  and 
Holmes,  solicitors,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  an  apparently 
entirely  eligible  young  man  in  every  way.  Gertrude  wrote 
from  Putney  that  she  hoped  her  dear  father  and  mother  would 
approve  and  would  not  object  to  their  being  married  almost 
immediately.  Her  dear  father  and  mother  did  approve  — 
were,  in  fact,  delighted,  and  Agatha  spent  an  hour  that  morning 
in  covering  several  sheets  with  sentiments  more  or  less  to  that 
effect.  (Left  to  herself,  Agatha  was  inclined  to  write  what 
is  called  a  "rambling"  letter.) 

But  Helena  had  very  little  to  say.  She  was  wondering  what 
it  was  like  to  fall  in  love,  and  this  engagement  of  Gertrude's 
translated  at  once  the  romance  of  her  world  of  books  into  the 
world  of  reality,  so  that  it  both  excited  and  thrilled  her.  Later, 
however,  when  the  eligible  Edgar  spent  a  week-end  at  Four 
Cross  House,  she  was  less  sure  of  things.  Her  prospective 
brother-in-larw  was  revealed  as  a  darkly  handsome  young  man 
of  twenty-eight,  tall  of  figure,  smooth  of  hair  and  skin,  bold 
of  eye  —  and  of  touch  (at  least,  when  he  passed  you  anything 
at  table  or  encountered  you  at  the  dark  turn  of  the  stairs). 
Moreover,  there  was  an  evening  when  Gertrude  and  he  quar- 
relled, and  when  seeing  Helena  emerge  from  the  house  Edgar 
had  deliberately  walked  over  to  her,  forsaking  the  angry  Ger- 
trude, who  had  raged  at  Helena  afterwards  and  said  horrible 
things. 


DAWN  33 

The  wedding  took  place  at  the  end  of  September,  and  Edgar 
and  Gertrude  went  to  live  in  a  villa  at  Wimbledon.  And  when 
Aunt  Milly  (who  had  come  to  Rattenby  for  the  ceremony) 
went  back  to  Putney  she  took  Helena  with  her.  There  she  re- 
mained for  a  year  and  nothing  happened  save  that  she  learned 
to  take  an  interest  in  her  appearance  and  discovered  that  her 
hair  had  a  broad,  natural  wave  in  it,  and  that  her  eyes  were  so 
deep  a  shade  of  blue  that  at  certain  times  and  in  artificial  light 
they  appeared  to  be  black.  In  addition  she  learned  from  Ger- 
trude that  marriage  had  its  drawbacks  —  that  it  was  rather  like 
living  on  the  side  of  a  volcano:  you  were  lucky  if  you  escaped. 
Gertrude,  apparently,  had  not  "escaped."  She  was  expecting 
a  baby  in  October.  "  Such  a  nuisance,"  she  said,  "  all  my 
plans  dished.  Edgar's  quite  cross  about  it.  I  do  hope  I'm 
not  going  to  take  after  mother.  Five  of  us  in  six  years!  Just 
fancy!  Aunt  Milly  told  me  how  cross  mother  was  about  it, 
and  they  were  so  wretchedly  poor  then,  too." 

Aunt  Milly  also  it  was  who  explained  the  incomprehensible 
failure  at  Putney  of  Agatha's  second  daughter. 

"She  simply  hasn't  any  idea,  my  dear  Agatha,  how  to  make 
herself  attractive  to  people.  She  ignored  every  eligible  young 
man  I  asked  to  meet  her,  and  the  only  person  she  seemed  to 
care  anything  about  was  that  man  Harry  will  bring  here —  Pet- 
ersen,  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  And  all  he  cares  for  is 
books.  Helena  and  he  used  to  talk  for  hours  about  them,  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out.  Harry  tells  me  Peterson  once  wrote  a 
book  himself  about  the  poet  Shelley  —  I  think  it  was  Shelley  — 
he  was  the  man  whose  wife  (or  one  of  them)  drowned  herself 
hi  the  Serpentine,  wasn't  he?  I  believe  he  once  took  her  to  the 
National  Gallery.  .  .  .  Oh,  have  I  said  something  funny?  I 
had  to  speak  very  severely  to  Harry  about  it.  Because  Peter- 
sen's  fifty  if  he's  a  day.  Of  course,  my  dear,  I'm  quite  willing 
to  have  her  up  here  again  if  you  like,  but  I  really  don't  believe 
it'll  be  a  scrap  of  good.  If  you  ask  me,  she  isn't  the  marrying 
sort." 

But  Agatha,  clinging  still  to  her  recollection  of  the  pencilled 
Tennyson,  refused  to  relinquish  hope.  Of  course,  people  who 
read  poetry  and  marked  it  were  the  "marrying  sort,"  even  if 
a  shade  too  exacting. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


HOWEVER  you  looked  at  it,  Hilary  thought,  Aunt  Lavin- 
ia's  coming  was  a  mistake.     For  she  brought  with  her 
no  knowledge  whatever  of  the  man  called  Stevenson,  but 
only  a  lot  of  new  rules  that  complicated  life  most  dreadfully 
and  a  horrible  thing  called  "The  Sabbath."     (Aunt  Lavinia 
called  it  "The  Seventh  Day,"  though  that  didn't  make  it  any 
better.) 

And  with  the  Sabbath  (if  it  was  fine)  came  chapel.  If  it 
was  wet  an  awful  picture-book,  which  alarmed  Hilary  con- 
siderably until  he  developed  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to 
ignore  it.  The  only  thing  that  mattered  was  that  when  Aunt 
Lavinia  inquired  if  you  had  been  looking  at  the  beautiful  pic- 
tures like  a  good  boy  you  should  say  that  you  had,  ignoring 
the  implied  compliment,  of  course,  and  not  contradicting  her 
about  die  word  "  beautiful."  But  chapel  was  a  much  more  dif- 
ficult thing  to  dodge  —  or  to  forget,  because  it  opened  up  vistas 
of  new  and  distressingly  difficult  thought  and  brought  strange 
words  into  his  vocabulary,  like  "  salvation  "  and  "  condemna- 
tion "  and  the  "unforgivable  sin."  (Hilary  did  not  know 
what  that  was,  but  was  quite  sure  he  had  committed  it.)  The 
Rev.  Jabez  Ham  expounded  the  gospel  with  the  same  extraor- 
dinary vehemence  as  that  with  which  nurse  chased  the  moths 
around  the  ceiling,  and  sometimes  Hilary  used  to  think  he 
would  never  stop.  But  he  always  did,  and  no  one  ever  seemed 
any  the  worse.  His  aunt  would  shake  hands,  then,  with  the 
people  she  knew  and  make  trivial  comments  about  the  weather, 
with  which,  usually,  they  all  had  some  fault  to  find.  One  took 
comfort  from  that  familiar,  everyday  scene.  You  could  not, 
beholding  it,  believe  that  things  were  anything  like  so  bad  as 
the  Rev.  Jabez  Ham  represented  them. 

Interrogated  on  the  point  Miss  Yeomans  said  that  of  course 
they  were  not,  and  her  voice  had  been  most  terribly  scornful. 

34 


DAWN  35 

But  then,  no  one  insisted  that  Miss  Yeomans  should  go  to 
chapel,  so  that  perhaps  she  didn't  properly  know.  But  at  least 
she  came  to  the  Mission. 

And  it  was  at  the  Mission  that  Hilary  disgraced  himself  by 
screaming  aloud  and  having  to  be  carried  out.  Afterwards  he 
thought  he  would  not  have  screamed  but  for  the  thunder-storm 
which  broke  at  a  moment  already  sufficiently  alarming.  For 
the  preacher  (not  the  Rev.  Jabez  Ham,  but  a  stranger  with  a 
mouth  ludicrously  reminiscent  of  india-rubber  or  a  dying 
codfish)  had  suddenly  invited  all  those  in  the  congregation  who 
were  going  to  heaven  to  stand  up.  Nobody  seemed  to  have  any 
doubts  at  all  on  the  matter,  and  the  whole  congregation  (save 
only  Hilary)  arose  in  a  body.  Very  stiff  and  erect,  Aunt 
Lavinia  was  standing  with  the  rest,  and  but  for  the  thunder- 
storm this  fact  might  very  well  have  comforted  Hilary  and  pre- 
served to  him  his  dignity.  Because  one  would  not  be  extremely 
anxious  to  go  to  heaven  if  Aunt  Lavinia  were  to  be  there. 
Heaven,  somehow,  was  just  a  place  where  Aunt  Lavinia  was 
not.  But  the  thunder-storm  came  and  Hilary  screamed.  The 
storm  and  Hilary's  screaming,  the  hallelujahs  of  the  men, 
the  whisperings  of  children  and  the  stifled  sobbing  of  women, 
all  got  mixed  up  horribly  together,  so  that  Aunt  Lavinia,  very 
red  in  the  face,  was  forced  to  abandon  the  congregation  momen- 
tarily halted  en  route  for  heaven,  and  carry  Hilary  out.  And 
suddenly  from  a  seat  by  the  door  Miss  Yeomans  arose.  "  It's 
all  right,  it's  all  right"  she  said  to  Hilary  as  he  clung  to  her, 
but  of  Aunt  Lavinia  she  took  no  notice  at  all.  "  To  take  a 
child  to  that!  "  she  said  later  (and  very  scornfully)  to  someone 
else  —  rather  as  if  she,  at  least,  had  discovered  the  "unfor- 
givable sin." 

Afterwards,  of  course,  Aunt  Lavinia  said  he  had  screamed 
on  purpose  because  he  didn't  like  going  to  chapel  and  hoped 
that  way  to  get  out  of  it.  (That  was  the  sort  of  mean  thing 
Aunt  Lavinia  was  always  doing:  so  that  you  couldn't  think  of 
her  without  thinking  of  them.  They  stuck  out  behind  her, 
luminously,  like  a  comet's  tail.)  But  Hilary  didn't  care  what 
Aunt  Lavinia  thought  or  what  she  said,  because  from  the  day 
of  the  Mission  he  never  went  again  to  chapel,  for  Miss  Yeomans 
had  bearded  his  father  in  his  philosophical  den  and  had 
emerged  with  the  satisfactory  information  that  if  the  doctrines 


36  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

of  Calvin  were  not  suited  to  Hilary's  temperament  he  might 
try  those  of  the  Church  of  England.  So  Hilary  went  to  the 
Parish  Church  (at  reasonable  intervals)  with  Ursula  and  found 
that  he  liked  it. 

2 

Long  afterwards  when  Hilary  heard  smart  people  declare 
that  they  thought  the  Church  of  England  had  died  years  before 
of  inanition,  he  would  remember  those  pleasant  mornings  in 
Yewhurst  Church,  and  how,  even  then,  it  had  seemed  as  if  life 
and  this  business  of  church-going-  were  two  quite  different  and 
separate  things.  For  all  that,  he  found  it  pleasurable  enough. 
He  liked  the  music  and  the  riot  of  colour  in  the  stained-glass 
windows  (that  most  of  all,  perhaps),  and  it  was  comforting  to 
know  that  here,  always,  you  might  rely  upon  uninterrupted 
peace  and  quiet  —  and  uniformly  good  behaviour.  Under  no 
circumstances  whatever,  could  you  imagine  the  man  behind  you 
or  the  woman  in  front  rising  in  ecstasy  and  shouting  "  Halle- 
lujah "  or  "  Praise  be  to  His  Name,"  and  these  were  things  for 
which  Hilary  could  never  be  sufficiently  grateful.  Yewhurst 
Church,  so  Ursula  told  him,  was  very  old.  The  tower  belonged 
to  the  thirteenth  century,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  lot  of  reasons 
why  you  should  admire  it  tremendously,  even  though  some  peo- 
ple to  whom  Ursula  referred  as  the  "  Vandals,"  and  with  whom, 
as  Hilary  thought,  she  seemed  unnecessarily  wrathful,  had 
"  ruined  "  the  main  building  by  "  restoring  "  it.  The  tower, 
so  Ursula  said,  they  had  had  the  goodness  to  leave  alone.  She 
mentioned  these  people  quite  casually,  as  though  they  were  a 
family  she  knew  very  well  and  disliked  intensely.  Hilary  "won- 
dered who  they  were,  but  rather  fancied  they  were  all  dead,  like 
Grimm  and  Stevenson  and  Andersen,  but  Ursula  said,  "  Dead? 
The  Vandals?  Good  gracious,  no.  They'll  never  die.  They'll 
still  be  living  when  you  and  I  are  dead  and  forgotten." 

Hilary  thought  that  if  this  were  so  there  was  not  much  hope 
for  that  thirteenth-century  tower.  There  was  still  plenty  of 
time  for  it  to  be  "  restored,"  and  if  the  Vandals  lived  so  long 
doubtless  they  would  be  glad  of  the  occupation.  He  rather 
wished  Ursula  didn't  dislike  the  family  so  much :  it  would  have 
been  distinctly  interesting  to  have  known  one  of  the  Van- 
dals. . 


DAWN  37 


It  was  very  soon  after  this  that  the  "  tragedy  of  Annie  "  oc- 
curred. ( Somehow  that  was  how  one  used  afterwards  to  think 
of  it.)  Annie  had  disappeared  quite  suddenly  from  Yewhurst 
Lodge  and  two  days  later  they  had  found  her  body  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  deep  green  pond  in  a  little  dark  fir  wood  through 
which  Hilary  had  often  walked  with  Ursula.  He  had  over- 
heard the  milkman  talking  to  Rayner,  the  Lodge  gardener, 
about  it  and  he  had  gathered  that  Annie  had  jumped  into  die 
pond  because  she  was  going  to  have  a  baby,  and  Aunt  Lavinia 
had  sent  luer  away  and  she  dare  not  go  home.  This  to  Hilary 
was  all  very  mystifying,  but  it  was  less  these  things  which 
troubled  him  than  the  thought  that  Annie,  who  had  been  so 
young  and  so  nice  to  look  at,  was  dead.  They  had  dragged 
her  body  out  of  the  deep  green  pond  and  the  milkman  and  Ray- 
ner between  them  had  told  some  dreadful  tales  of  the  ugly 
things  green  and  stagnant  water  could  do  to  you.  To  be  dead 
when  one  was  young  —  an  awful  thing,  that.  The  most  awful 
thing  you  could  imagine.  To  Hilary,  for  ever  tugged  at  the 
heart  by  the  beauty  of  the  thing  seen  and  felt,  who  loved  life 
with  a  white-heat  intensity  that  never  burned  itself  out,  pre- 
mature death  was  always  an  unspeakable  horror.  All  his  life 
it  was  extremely  difficult  to  grasp  the  state  of  mind  which  urged 
any  human  being  to  this  ghastly  act  of  self-extinction;  so  diffi- 
cult to  envisage  a  set  of  circumstances  which  expunged  the 
phantasmagoria  of  life-  like  a  wet  sponge  passed  over  a  state. 
Even  as  a  child,  this  incident  of  Annie's  death  meant  one  thing 
only  to  him:  that  she  who  had  loved  to  live  was  dead  —  dead 
to  the  stars  and  the  winds  —  and  that  he  would  never  see  her 
pretty  face  again  nor  hear  her  gay  voice  on  the  stairs. 


Out  of  the  quiet  level  of  happy  days  that  ensued  (for  you 
couldn't,  thank  Heaven,  think  of  poor  Annie  and  the  dank  pond 
for  ever)  one  or  two  things  emerged  into  prominence.  One 
(and  not  the  least  important)  was  Aunt  Lavinia's  departure 
from  Yewhurst,  her  evangelical  stomach  having  risen  at  last 
against  the  heretical  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England  which 


38  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

she  had,  so  to  speak,  been  forced  to  swallow.  In  her  place 
there  came  a  new  housekeeper  who  required  nothing  of  you  save 
that  you  should  bow  down  to  the  chief  of  her  domestic  gods  — 
the  one  with  the  brazen  face  called  Punctuality.  A  bagatelle, 
that,  for  the  small  boy  who  had  lived  with  an  Aunt  Lavinia. 

But  even  more  exciting  than  Aunt  Lavinia's  departure  was 
Arthur  Yeomans'  arrival.  Arthur  was  Ursula's  brother  and 
he  came  to  Yewhurst  Lodge  twice  a  week  to  give  Hilary  the 
art  lessons  Ursula  had  discovered  he  ought  to  have.  (Ursula 
always  discovered  things  of  this  sort:  she  was  as  clever  as  all 
that  —  knew  what  you  would  love  best  to  do  before  you  knew 
it  yourself!)  Arthur  Yeomans  preferred  Paris  to  London  as  a 
place  of  habitation,  but  had  been  driven  to  London  by  a  love- 
affair  which  had  gone  awry  and  was  going  to  remain  like  that 
for  ever.  And  London  being,  to  Arthur's  mind,  as  insupport- 
able as  ever,  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  it  and  come  home  to 
Yewhurst.  Not  that  the  miracle  of  his  coming  was  explained 
like  this  to  Hilary  —  to  whom  it  was  sufficient  that  he  came. 
Because  for  Hilary  it  wasn't  only  the  lessons  he  loved,  but  the 
man  who  gave  them.  Arthur's  visits  were  a  rich,  rare  pleasure 
to  Hilary  —  a  new  subtle  fragrance  added  unexpectedly  to 
life,  for  as  a  child  his  capacity  for  friendship  was  remarkable. 
All  the  affection  which  in  ordinary  circumstances  he  would 
have  lavished  upon  his  mother  contrived  to  get  itself  diffused 
across  and  along  the  pathway  of  life  —  like  vivid  colour  spilled 
over  the  edge  of  some  luxurious  garden. 

Two  other  things  there  were  peeping  up  above  the  level, 
the  death  of  Flossie,  the  little  black  cat,  and  the  day  when 
Ursula  had  suddenly  sat  down  and  cried,  and  someone  cut 
little  bits  out  of  every  paper  that  came  to  the  house.  .  .  . 

Then  a  lot  more  happy  days,  another  summer  and  winter, 
and  presently  the  decision  on  somebody's  part  that  he  was  old 
enough  to  do  certain  things  for  himself.  Which  meant  that 
nurse  packed  up  and  went  to  look  after  someone  else  who 
could  not.  Somehow,  it  was  nicer  without  nurse,  and  one  felt 
delightfully  free  and  grown  up.  Winter  passed  and  spring  and 
another  summer,  and  suddenly  came  devastating  news  of  Ur- 
sula's impending  marriage  and  departure  to  Yorkshire,  and  in 
the  middle  of  it  all  people  went  off  to  fight  the  Boers  and 
Yewhurst  village  was  hung  with  flags  and  everybody  got  tre- 


DAWN  39 

mendously  excited.  But  not  Ursula  and  not  Arthur  (nor  his 
father,  who,  of  course,  never  got  excited  about  anything  at  all) . 
Queer  things  happened  at  this  time,  very  difficult  to  under- 
stand. There  was  the  afternoon  when  Arthur  came  in  with  a 
deep  cut  over  his  left  eye  from  which  the  blood  was  running 
freely  down  his  cheek,  and  who  said  nothing  whatever  as  to  how 
it  happened,  save  (to  Ursula,  as  she  was  bathing  the  wound), 
"My  country  —  right  or  wrong!"  There  were  also  several 
other  occasions  when  a  mob  of  village  youths  and  small  boys 
foregathered  at  the  gates  of  the  Lodge  and  threw  stones  at  the 
windows,  and  still  other  occasions  (and  by  far  the  worst)  when 
a  new  strange  word  came  hurtling  after  them  when  Hilary  went 
out  walking  with  Ursula  or  Arthur.  Personally,  Hilary  did 
not  like  being  called  a  pro-Boer,  and  could  not  in  the  least  un- 
derstand why,  when  she  heard  it,  Ursula  should  lift  her  head 
in  that  proud  fashion,  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  were  a  term  of 
honour  and  respect.  And  Hilary  hated  the  mob  that  tossed  the 
word  about  and  spoilt  these  last  few  months  he  and  Ursula  had 
together. 

For  in  the  midst  of  the  Mafeking  demonstrations  Ursula  was 
married  and  went  off  to  Yorkshire,  leaving  Hilary  to  support 
the  trial  as  best  he  might  on  Cooper's  Indians,  Marryat's  ad- 
ventures on  the  high  seas  and  Stevenson's  terrible  seafaring 
man  with  one  leg.  He  retired  into  a  booky  world  of  his  own 
from  which  he  emerged  at  intervals  to  his  art  lessons  and  to 
take  a  fierce,  unchildish  joy  in  contemplating  with  passionate 
scorn  the  fervid  displays  of  patriotism  in  which,  these  days,  the 
village  abounded.  During  the  long  walks  with  Arthur  Yeo- 
mans,  which  helped  to  fill  up  the  strangely  empty  days,  Hil- 
ary's young  mind  was  frequently  occupied  with  subjects  which, 
for  the  average  boy  of  his  age,  do  not  exist  at  all.  The  germ 
of  very  many  of  those  conversations  remained  with  Hilary  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  Unconsciously,  these  days,  he  learned  to 
lift  his  head  as  Ursula  had  been  used  to  do  when  that  horrible 
word  "  pro-Boer "  came  winging  after  them,  and  which,  for 
all  his  pioneer  pride,  never  failed  to  send  a  cold  shiver  down 
Hilary's  spine.  He  dreaded,  even  whilst  he  despised,  the  vio- 
lence of  the  mob,  though  acutely  conscious  sometimes  of  an 
incongruous  desire  to  rush  blindly  upon  the  big  bullies  who 
shouted  insults  at  him  in  the  village  and  smashed  the  windows 


40  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

at  Yewhurst.  It  was  Arthur,  too,  who  taught  him  the  art  of 
fisticuffs,  and  the  two  would  conduct  a  sparring  bout  on  Yew- 
hurst  lawn  for  the  edification  of  such  of  the  bullies  as  might 
happen  to  pass  that  way.  It  puzzled  Hilary  that  the  man  who 
detested  the  war  should  be  so  keen  a  disciple  of  the  art  of  self- 
defence;  but  then  a  good  many  things  in  life  puzzled  Hilary 
at  this  time.  Besides,  even  if  the  displays  on  the  lawn  con- 
stituted but  a  fearful  joy  to  Hilary,  at  least  they  represented  an 
argument  the  village  bullies  could  understand.  That,  always, 
to  Hilary,  was  the  use  of  this  art  he  never  learned  to  care  for : 
it  did  represent  an  argument  that  one  type  of  person  could  un- 
derstand. The  "type,"  he  discovered  later  on,  was  distress- 
ingly ubiquitous.  .  .  . 


Ursula's  departure  was  devastating.  The  bottom  of  Hilary's 
life  had  dropped  out,  leaving  him  suspended  in  mid-air,  desti- 
tute of  a  foothold.  For  Ursula  had  meant  so  much.  All  un- 
knowingly he  had  given  to  her  the  bright  blossom  of  his  love, 
so  that  his  feeling  for  the  mother  who  lived  even  yet  in  his 
memory  had  become  rather  like  the  pale  wind-flowers  that  creep 
shyly  up  the  hillsides.  .  .  .  And  now  Ursula  was  married  and 
would,  doubtless,  have  a  little  boy  of  her  own.  People  did 
when  they  were  married.  Hilary  did  not  understand  these 
things. 

And,  anyway,  he  wa»  to  have  nothing  but  tutors.  .  .  . 


They  came.  Four  of  them  in  five  years.  And,  in  each  case, 
singularly  cold-blooded,  Hilary  watched  their  flitting  without 
a  pang.  Sandwiched  in  between  their  coming  and  going  were 
wonderful  visits  to  Yorkshire,  where  Ursula  helped  him  to  fall 
in  love  with  the  moors  and  with  the  Bronte  sisters  who  belonged 
to  them.  She  took  him  to  see  Haworth  village  and  across  to 
Stanbury  Moor  to  the  Waterfall  and  told  him  of  the  little  black 
cat  that,  like  Flossie,  had  died,  and  of  "  Keeper,"  Emily's  dog, 
who  followed  his  dead  mistress  down  the  flagged  path  to  the 


DAWN  41 

grave  under  the  church  pavement,  over  which  no  heather  waved 
nor  wind  breathed  requiem. 

None  of  the  tutors  mattered,  of  course,  but  Hilary  always 
considered  that  Mr.  Carton  was  the  best  of  them  —  perhaps 
because  he  was  also  the  last.  But  Mr.  Carton  possessed  yet  an- 
other claim  to  the  distinction  of  Hilary's  preference  —  he  was 
not  in  the  least  dismayed  at  his  pupil's  failure  to  be  thrilled 
or  held  by  the  mysteries  of  Pi.  R-  and  relative  symbols.  Mr. 
Carton,  however,  had  an  enthusiasm  of  his  own  —  and  that  was 
for  the  art  of  writing  shorthand  according  to  Pitman.  "  You 
know  nothing  whatever  about  the  construction  of  English 
words,"  this  gentleman  would  say,  "  until  you  have  mastered 
the  principles  of  phonography.  So  peg  away."  And  because 
even  shorthand  was  preferable  to  "  maths,"  Hilary  pegged  away 
with  what  will  he  could  muster.  He  was  never  a  good  stu- 
dent of  the  winged  art,  and  wrote  outlines  that  Mr.  Carton  de- 
clared were  "  abominable  for  a  boy  who  could  draw,"  but  he 
managed  to  attain  the  giddy  stenographic  speed  of  eighty  words 
a  minute  and  his  sixteenth  birthday  somewhere  about  the  same 
time.  It  was  just  at  this  point  that  something  awoke  his  father 
to  the  fact  of  his  existence,  and  he  was  requisitioned  to  assist 
(with  Pitman)  in  the  production  of  yet  another  of  the  dull 
tomes  whose  existence  he  deplored.  How  far  Mr.  Carton  was 
concerned  in  this  direful  arrangement  never  transpired,  but 
the  fact  remained  that  in  the  interest  of  a  philosophical  treatise 
for  which  he  cared  nothing,  Hilary  wrote  his  weird  hiero- 
glyphics for  half  an  hour  each  morning  and  wrote  them  ex- 
tremely badly.  Pitman  was  a  name  to  deplore,  and  yet  they 
had  made  the  man  a  knight. 

A  disappointing  world,  grown  most  suddenly  and  unbeliev- 
ably dull.  .  .  . 


It  was  much  duller  by  the  end  of  June  when  Mr.  Carton  was 
hurried  off  by  his  doctor  to  some  warmer  climate  and  Arthur 
Yeomans  went  down  into  Norfolk  to  paint  a  portrait  of  an 
important  somebody's  small  daughter.  Mixed  up  with  the 
dulness,  however,  was  one  week  of  delirious  excitement  when 
Hilary  fell  desperately  and  unexpectedly  in  love.  It  was  an 


42  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

idyll  as  brief  as  it  was  unexpected,  lasting  just  exactly  a  week 
—  which  was  the  precise  length  of  the  holiday  the  charming 
young  person  was  spending  in  the  village.  She  disappeared  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  come,  and  Hilary  had  no  time  at  all  in 
which  to  indulge  his  grief  because  just  then  there  came  a 
devastating  letter  from  Yorkshire,  written  not  by  Ursula,  but 
by  the  young  doctor,  John  Wyatt,  whom  she  had  married.  Ur- 
sula, it  appeared,  was  ill:  not  very  ill,  but  certainly  not  well 
enough  to  be  bothered  with  Hilary  (not  that  Dr.  Wyatt  put 
it  in  the  least  like  that:  that  was  Hilary's  perverse  reading  of 
his  letter).  They  would,  however,  expect  to  see  Hilary  at 
Christmas,  when  they  would  give  him  a  good  time  and  hoped 
to  have  a  surprise  for  him.  Surprises,  of  course,  were  all  very 
well,  but  a  "surprise  at  Christmas"  Hilary  thought  was  but 
poor  compensation  for  no  holiday  in  July.  Life  was  certainly 
disappointing.  There  simply  wasn't  anything  at  all  you  could 
depend  upon. 

Things  went  on  being  dull  and  disappointing  until  Arthur 
came  back  from  his  portrait-painting,  and  then,  just  as  they 
were  beginning  to  get  interesting  again,  telegrams  flashed  hor- 
ridly between  Yorkshire  and  Sussex,  and  Arthur,  packing  a 
hasty  hand-bag,  rushed  off  to  Haxby  Wyke,  because  that  was 
the  place  where  Ursula  lived,  and  the  telegrams  said  she  was 
worse. 

For  a  week  Hilary  lived  with  new  and  horrible  thoughts  of 
a  universe  in  which  Ursula  was  not.  He  was  so  dreadfully 
afraid  she  would  die.  But  she  did  not.  The  end  of  August 
found  her  convalescing  among  the  English  lakes,  from  which 
she  wrote  to  Hilary  that  she  was  almost  well  again,  but  that 
she  was  afraid  there  would  be  no  "  surprise  "  for  him  at  Christ- 
mas, after  all.  As  though  Hilary  cared  in  the  least  for  that! 
But  Ursula  cared.  It  was  many  years  before  Hilary  realised 
that  she  always  had  cared  —  that  she  always  would. 

In  the  midst  of  Ursula's  convalescence  —  quite  suddenly  and 
wonderfully  —  school  loomed  on  Hilary's  horizon,  for  Mr. 
Carton's  departure  had  proved  the  final  straw  in  the  breaking 
of  the  back  of  Ralph  Sargent's  prejudice  against  sending  his 
son  into  the  society  of  other  boys.  Even  Pitman  and  the  hated 
philosophical  dictation  could  not  dim  for  Hilary  the  bright 
radiance  of  those  two  things  shining  there  on  the  horizon  — 


DAWN  43 

school  at  the  end  of  September  and  his  Haxby  Wyke  holiday 
at  Christmas !  They  spelt  something  very  like  oblivion  for  his 
memory  of  the  week-long  idyll,  which  remained  where  Ursula's 
illness  had  pushed  it  —  in  some  remote  corner  of  his  brain,  in- 
extricably mixed  up  with  a  page  of  shorthand  notes.  Properly 
he  never  disentangled  it.  Years  afterwards  when  he  thought 
of  it  at  all  it  was  always  like  that  —  as  a  grateful,  restful 
oasis  in  the  Pitmanic  desert.  .  .  . 

8 

But  before  Christmas  came,  the  inevitable  had  happened. 
An  old  story  was  dug  up  out  of  its  grave,  most  indecently,  and 
Hilary  found  himself  confronting  it. 

It  was  Carfax's  fault,  if  fault  is  the  word.  Carfax  had  a 
stepmother  —  very  well  known  on  the  Comedy  Stage,  so  Car- 
fax said,  at  any  rate.  And  he  was  a  beast  —  though  in  this 
particular  instance  he  had  not  intended  to  be.  He  had  merely 
thought  that  Hilary  knew.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  Carfax 
would  think,  of  course.  But  when  he  found  that  Hilary  didn't 
he  had  declared  he  could  bring  proof,  in  the  shape  of  news- 
paper-cuttings, which  he  knew  his  stepmother  had  somewhere 
if  he  could  only  find  them  and  if  Hilary  would  promise  not  to 
"blab."  Hilary,  very  white,  had  said,  "  Damn  your  news- 
paper-cuttings," but  when  Carfax  turned  up  with  them 
he  read  them  every  one  and  felt  desperately  sick  afterwards. 
Because,  no  doubt  about  it,  Carfax  was  right.  These  things 
had  been. 

That  afternoon  Hilary  played  goal  for  his  House  — and  the 
House  lost  ignominiously.  He  had  played,  everyone  said,  a 
bally  rotten  game,  not  knowing  that  Hilary  had  not  once 
thought  of  the  game  or  his  House;  and  that  every  now  and  then 
in  his  mechanical  play  he  was  handicapped  by  seeing  neither 
players  nor  ball,  but  only  a  dank  green  pond  in  the  middle  of  a 
little  fir  wood.  .  .  . 

Everyone  was  angry  with  Hilary:  only  Carfax  stood  up  for 
him.  But  then  Carfax  was  frightened  —  horribly  frightened 
by  the  queer  look  in  Hilary's  dark  grey  eyes  and  that  white, 
frozen  face  of  his.  And,  too,  Carfax  was  half  afraid  he 
wouldn't  get  his  newspaper-cuttings  back. 


44  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


For  months  it  was  only  that  dank  green  pond  Hilary  saw 
when  he  allowed  himself  to  think  of  that  old  story  at  all.  The 
illicit  relationship,  the  fact  that  his  mother  had  "  run  away  with 
some  other  fellow  "  (which  was  the  whole  point  of  the  story  to 
Carfax  because  that  was  the  sort  of  person  Carfax  was)  mat- 
tered to  Hilary  at  this  stage  not  in  the  least.  It  mattered  later, 
but  not  so  much  and  not  for  long.  It  might  have  mattered 
more  and  longer  but  for  something  else  which  had  happened 
and  beside  which  nothing  was  of  the  least  importance.  But 
here  at  sixteen  the  really  dreadful  thing  about  Carfax's  old 
story  was  that  the  "  tragedy  of  Annie  "  (that  was  how,  all  these 
years,  it  had  stuck  in  his  mind)  had  dragged  its  muddy  trail 
across  the  delicate  lovely  memory  that  had  lain  so  deeply  en- 
shrined in  his  heart  —  like  a  flower  laid  up  tenderly  in  laven- 
der. She  who  had  loved  to  live  had  —  there,  at  the  last  —  sim- 
ply not  wanted  to  go  on.  You  couldn't,  somehow,  believe 
it.  ... 

Hilary  did  not  see  then  —  and,  properly,  he  never  did  see  — 
that  there  was  any  other  tragedy  in  life  that  mattered  beside 
this  hideous  one  of  dying  before  you  were  old  —  before  you 
had  lived,  actually,  at  all.  It  was  a  thing  so  horrible  it  never 
should  happen  at  all.  It  was  outrageous  that  it  ever  could  hap- 
pen —  to  anyone. 

He  said  so  to  Ursula  in  a  long,  not  very  coherent,  letter 
that  it  made  her  sad  to  read,  because  she  saw  how  it  was.  Hil- 
ary had  grown  up.  To  Ursula,  who  loved  him,  there  was  some- 
thing infinitely  pathetic  in  growing  up  at  sixteen. 

With  the  letter  in  her  hand  she  stood  for  long  at  the  open 
window,  looking  out  across  the  broad  dark  moor,  and  her  heart 
—  as  the  hearts  of  women  will  —  was  crying  bitterly  for  the 
little  child  she  had  kissed  and  comforted,  and  who,  save  per- 
haps in  dreams,  would  never  again  come  back  to  her. 


BOOK  II 
SHADOW 


CHAPTER  ONE 


FOR  nearly  three  years  nothing  whatever  occurred  to  break 
the  even  tenor  of  Helena  Morden's  life  in  that  old  house 
on  the  moor,  save  her  occasional  visits  to  Gertrude  at 
"  The  Laurels,"  Wimbledon,  and  her  discovery  of  Thomas 
Hardy,  Sarah  Grand,  Olive  Schreiner,  Mark  Rutherford  and 
Elizabeth  Robins.  She  had  said  she  did  not  want  to  go  back 
to  Putney,  and  as  Aunt  Milly  had  not  been  pressing  she  had 
remained  in  the  family  circle.  That,  however,  was  some- 
what depleted  these  days,  for  Ted,  who  was  to  be  a  solicitor, 
having  passed  his  "  prelim.,"  had  been  taken  into  Edgar's  office 
and  home;  whilst  Walter  (whose  ambitions  were  less  exalted) 
had  been  content,  at  eighteen,  to  go  into  a  Bank  at  Halifax,  and 
nowadays  came  home  only  for  week-ends,  the  greater  part  of 
which  time  he  spent  at  the  white  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
paying  court  to  Cissie  Ellingham.  It  amused  Helena  to  watch 
her  mother's  consternation  over  that  little  affair:  it  was  one 
thing  to  marry  off  your  own  daughters;  quite  another  to  see 
your  sons  desirous  of  performing  that  kind  office  for  some  other 
woman's  daughters.  Helena  knew  that  in  her  mother's  eyes 
poor  negative  little  Cissie  had  utterly  condemned  herself  in 
contriving  to  get  born  two  whole  years  before  Walter.  That 
fact  alone  would  have  stamped  her  in  Agatha's  eyes  as  a  de- 
signing minx  out  to  catch  her  poor  innocent  boy,  even  if  it  had 
not  happened  that  Cissie,  with  her  big  pathetic  brown  eyes  and 
small  pale  face,  had  six  other  sisters  at  home,  all  unmarried. 
"  The  Ellingham  girls  were  born  to  be  old  maids,"  Agatha 
would  say  and  was  distant  to  Cissie  when  Walter  brought  her 
home  to  tea.  Helena  was  sorry  for  Cissie  but  she  found  the 
situation  amusing.  .  .  . 

The  news  of  Lucy's  engagement  to  the  Rev.  John  Elleker,  a 

47 


48  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

curate  at  a  Putney  church  (what  had  Aunt  Milly  been  thinking 
of?)  and  her  marriage  only  of  a  couple  of  months  later, 
switched  Helena's  thoughts  from  Walter's  undesired  love-affair 
and  fixed  them  upon  an  aspect  of  things  that  had  never  before 
occurred  to  her.  "She  was  twenty-one:  she  had  never  been 
kissed.  She  would  get  left." 

The  phrases  were  her  father's.  Coming  in,  that  March  day 
of  Lucy's  wedding,  from  his  speeding  of  the  final  parting  guest, 
his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  Helena  standing  there  at  the  window 
looking  out  over  the  broad  sweep  of  dark  moor  and  he  had 
blurted  these  things  out  at  her  as  he  opened  the  pages  of  his 
Post  and  turned  his  back  on  her. 

"  Twenty -one,  and  never  been  kissed!  Well,  it  beats  me!  " 
he  had  said. 

But  Helena  had  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way  before.  She 
sat  there  at  the  window,  with  the  shadow  of  coming  evening 
upon  her  face,  and  burrowed  deeply  within  her  memory  of  the 
past,  searching  for  something  which  might  be  dignified  by  the 
name  of  a  love-affair.  But  not  one  could  she  find,  for  it  was 
impossible  to  count  the  youth  at  the  Wimbledon  library  who 
had  introduced  her  to  Elizabeth  Robins  and  waxed  enthusiastic 
over  Hardy.  With  your  head  full  of  golden  memories  of  the 
"  blameless  king  "  and  bold  Sir  Lancelot,  it  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  you  could  look  with  favour  upon  a  red-haired  boy 
who  addressed  you  as  "  Miss,"  and  who,  when  he  met  you  in  the 
road,  snatched  off  his  cap  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  blush  as 
vivid  as  his  hair.  Perhaps  one  should  not  notice  these  things, 
but  then,  unfortunately,  one  does.  And  when  you  had  said  all 
you  possibly  could  say  for  the  library  youth,  there  was  simply 
no  one  else  left. 

Here,  really,  was  the  beginning  of  it  all  —  the  beginning  of 
the  gradual  realisation  of  the  process  with  which  she  had  been 
concerned  so  long.  She  was  waiting!  For  what  she  did  not 
know  —  but  that  she  must  go  on  she  was  assured.  There  was 
no  other  way  out. 

And  sometimes  it  seemed  as  though  she  was  waiting  for 
something  big,  something  vast,  impersonal.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly,  surprisingly,  "  something  "  happened,  though 
whether  it  was  "  big  "  and  whether  it  was  "  vast  "  and  "  imper- 
sonal "  was  another  matter. 


SHADOW  49 


It  was  some  sixteen  months  after  Lucy's  marriage  that  Hel- 
ena, coming  into  the  house  after  a  long  walk  across  the  moors 
on  an  evening  towards  the  end  of  July,  found  her  father  deep 
in  conversation  with  a  tall,  dark  man  whom  she  did  not  know, 
and  who  she  imagined  had  come  upon  some  matter  of  business. 
Her  father's  voice,  breaking  in  upon  her  murmur  of  apology, 
had  called  her  back. 

"  It's  all  right,  Lena,  don't  go.  This  is  our  new  neighbour, 
Mr.  Courtney.  He's  building  the  house  at  the  top  of  Hill 
Brow.  .  .  ." 

Helena  had  noticed  the  uprising  house. 

"  Grey  stone  is  so  much  nicer  than  red  brick,"  she  said  to 
the  stranger  and  quite  unaccountably  her  smile  deepened.  She 
liked  his  face:  it  was  frank  and  open,  and  his  voice  singularly 
low  and  charming  for  so  big  a  man.  After  he  had  gone  Helena 
agreed  with  her  father  when  he  said  that  he  seemed  a  very  "  de- 
cent sort  of  chap,"  and  then  promptly  forgot  all  about  him. 

But  after  that  day  it  seemed  to  her  that  Mr.  Courtney's  calls 
upon  her  father  became  remarkably  frequent,  and  one  sur- 
prising day  he  drove  down  in  his  motor-car  and  insisted  upon 
taking  them  out  for  a  drive.  Helena  had  sat  at  his  side  and  had 
revelled  in  the  motion  and  the  breeze,  wondering  what  it  all 
meant  and  why  the  owner  of  such  a  beautiful  car  should  be  so 
anxious  to  take  three  such  ordinary  people  for  a  drive.  But  as 
the  days  went  on  it  became  clearer,  for  Helena  began  to  realise 
that  somehow  when  this  man  called  she  was  sure  to  be  left 
alone  with  him  during  some  part  of  his  stay,  and  there  had 
speedily  come  a  day  when  he  had  arrived  to  find  neither  her 
mother  nor  her  father  at  home,  when  he  had  urged  her  to  let 
him  take  her  for  a  drive — "just  you  alone"-  — when  all  her 
excuses  were  exhausted.  It  had  been  daylight  when  they 
started  and  Helena  had  enjoyed  every  minute  of  the  run, 
but  on  the  return  journey  the  light  was  beginning  to  ebb  and 
before  they  were  half-way  home  it  was  quite  dark.  Presently 
she  had  felt  the  pressure  of  a  hand  upon  her  arm  and  quite  sud- 
denly the  man's  hand  had  closed  upon  hers.  She  had  drawn 
away  with  a  quickly-breathed  "  Don't,  please  don't,"  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  homeward  journey  had  talked  quickly  and  unceas- 


50  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

ingly,  stricken  with  an  unreasoning  panic  and  a  dread  of  some- 
thing she  dared  not  define.  Two  days  later  Mr.  Courtney  came 
to  dinner  and  presently  Helena  found  that  once  again  they  had 
the  drawing-room  to  themselves,  and,  although  she  hated  play- 
ing to  any  sort  of  audience,  she  was  yet  relieved  when  Courtney 
asked  her  to  play  the  False  Triste  of  Sibelius,  because  anything 
was  better  than  these  embarrassing  tetes-a-tetes.  She  began  to 
play  with  a  rather  uncertain  touch,  her  mind  anywhere  but  on 
the  music,  revolving  every  now  and  then  the  possibility  of  es- 
cape. But  as  though  he  divined  her  thoughts,  Jerome  Court- 
ney moved  to  her  side. 

"  You  like  music?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes  — but  I  don't  play  well." 

The  man  looked  down  at  her  and  smiled,  and  Helena  sud- 
denly deserted  Sibelius  and  invented  weird  and  wonderful 
chords  of  her  own,  with  an  overwhelming  realisation  that  she 
was  powerless  to  prevent  what  she  knew  was  coming. 

'*  You  are  too  modest,"  said  the  man,  and  there  was  that  in 
his  voice  which  made  Helena  push  back  the  music  stool  in  a 
sudden  attempt  to  get  away  from  the  tall  figure  which  seemed 
to  be  encompassing  her.  But  Courtney  was  too  quick  for  her; 
his  hands  caught  at  her  wrists  and  he  held  her  a  prisoner,  so 
that  she  was  bound  to  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  Look  here,"  he  began,  "  I  want  you  to  come  and  look  over 
that  house  of  mine.  It's  nearly  finished  .  .  .  and  there's  the 
furniture,  and  the  name.  It  must  have  a  name,  I  suppose. 
Why  can't  you  come  to-morrow?  I've  asked  your  father  and 
mother  up  to  lunch.  There's  a  lot  to  show  you  .  .  .  and  I 
want  your  opinion.  Besides,  well  —  I  wani  you  to  like  things." 

"  Why?  "  Helena's  eyes  met  his  steadily  enough,  but  her 
heart  was  beating  painfully,  and  all  the  time  her  wrists  were 
twisting  themselves  between  the  strong  hands  that  held  them. 
"  What  do  you  want?  " 

"You!" 

Helena's  eyes  fell  before  the  look  in  the  man's. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said. 

"  Not  until  you  promise  to  come  to-morrow.  It's  no  use 
to  refuse.  I  know  my  own  mind  and  I  always  get  what  I 
want.  And  this  time  I  want  you." 

After  that  Helena  remembered  very  little  about  anything  save 


SHADOW  51 

that  she  was  suddenly  caught  in  strong  arms  and  kissed  with  a 
violence  that  took  her  breath  away  —  that  the  door  opened  un- 
expectedly and  that  there  was  a  buzz  of  sudden  conversation, 
out  of  which  her  father's  "  With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  chap!  " 
and  her  mother's  "  My  dear  Helena !  "  rose  like  a  Greek  chorus. 
And  she  suddenly  realised  that  it  was  she  herself  who  was  stand- 
ing in  the  midst  of  all  this  unfamiliarity  .  .  .  that  she  was 
pushing  back  her  hair  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  was 
pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  which,  as  she  was  dully 
aware,  felt  bruised  and  sore. 

So  this  was  what  she  had  been  waiting  for! 

**  I  wonder !  "  she  said,  as  later  she  lay  in  bed  and  watched 
the  moon  and  stars  —  symbols  of  infinity  and  spaciousness  — 
through  her  unshuttered  window.  Certainly  there  was  nothing 
vast,  nothing  impersonal  about  this  "  engagement "  of  hers. 
It  was  bounded  by  the  circumference  of  that  great  house  on  the 
hill,  and  it  seemed  in  some  strange  fashion  to  be  connected  with 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  her  father  and  mother,  and  with 
a  grey  silent  motor-car.  .  .  . 

And  of  love,  once  again,  not  one  word  had  been  spoken. 


Other  things,  too,  came  in  the  space  of  the  next  few  weeks  to 
emphasize  the  personal  note  of  this  unfamiliar  happening, 
and  to  deepen  the  sense  of  uncertainty  and  bewilderment  in 
Helena's  mind  —  new  frocks,  new  hats,  and  the  process  of  "  try- 
ing them  on  ";  congratulations,  presents,  visits,  and  above  all, 
perhaps,  the  knowledge  that  for  the  first  time  one  is  a  person  of 
some  importance  in  one's  little  family  circle.  Never  before, 
indeed,  had  Helena  met  with  so  much  approval;  it  seemed  to 
her  that  with  the  arrival  of  each  fresh  day  her  surroundings  be- 
came less  real,  gathered  to  themselves  yet  a  little  more  of  the 
similitude  of  a  dream.  It  could  not  actually  be  she  who  was 
to  marry  Jerome  Rutherford  Courtney,  one  .of  the  "  Courtneys 
of  Gloucester  "  as  Agatha,  middle-class  to  her  finger-tips,  was 
never  tired  of  reminding  her.  Helena's  mother  had  all  the  rev- 
erence of  her  class  for  "  family  "  and  "  position,"  and  it  mat- 
tered not  at  all  to  her  that  the  Courtneys  of  Gloucester  were 
bankrupt;  that  their  traditional  home  had  been  out  of  their 


52  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

hands  for  a  century  or  more,  until  Jerome's  sister,  marrying  a 
wealthy  American,  had  persuaded  him  to  buy  it  b.ack  and  adopt 
her  name.  Certainly  the  bankruptcy  would  have  mattered 
enormously  to  Agatha  had  it  extended  itself  to  the  fortune  of 
that  particular  male  representative  of  the  family  to  whom  her 
daughter  (almost  unbelievably)  had  become  engaged. 

To  Agatha  there  was  something  eminently  satisfactory  in 
the  reflection  that  Jerome  Courtney's  very  comfortable  income, 
though  it  owed  its  origin  to  an  unexpected  legacy,  came  now 
from  the  personal  enterprise  that  had  built  up  the  successful 
motor-business  with  which  his  name  was  associated.  Mrs. 
Morden  loved  a  capable  man  —  a  man  who  could  "  make 
money  and  keep  a  wife  decently  " ;  and  Jerome,  she  felt,  was 
essentially  a  "  capable  "  man,  as  the  last  dividend  of  Courtney 
Motors,  Limited,  bore  witness.  Money  and  family!  What 
more  could  anyone,  even  Helena,  desire?  Nevertheless,  in 
this  case  one  was  fain  to  admit  that  there  was  a  good  deal 
"  more,"  for  the  fates  had  endowed  the  Managing  Director  of 
Courtney  Motors,  Ltd.,  with  the  tall,  broad  proportions  of  bis 
ancestors  and  contrived  in  a  delicately  subtle  manner  to  blend 
the  appearance  of  strength  with  an  undeniable  gentleness  and 
amenity  of  manner.  Over  the  natural  amiability  of  his  brown 
face,  with  its  shrewd,  penetrative  eyes,  there  had  grown  with 
the  passage  of  years  another  expression,  difficult  to  give  a  name 
to,  but  which  Helena's  mother,  forgetful  for  once  of  the  Glou- 
cester escutcheon,  sought  to  explain  as  "  rather  the  look  of  an 
American,  don't  you  think  —  like  one  of  those  heads  in  Har- 
per's." The  dominant  features  of  the  face  were  the  square 
firm  chin  and  the  alert,  shrewd  but  kindly  eyes.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  capable  of  tenacity  and  effort,  of  one  who,  against 
heavy  odds,  would  reach  his  objective,  so  that,  in  a  way,  per- 
haps, Mrs.  Morden  was  right. 

The  fact  that  Courtney  .was  thirty-four  and  Helena  only 
twenty-two  was  scarcely  the  sort  of  fact  that  was  likely  to  hold 
significance  for  Agatha.  A  man,  she  would  have  said,  could 
always  "  give  a  woman  ten  years  at  least,"  and  in  any  case  it 
was  not  romance  Agatha  was  looking  for.  Her  philosophy  was 
extremely  simple,  and  did  not  deal  in  abstractions.  For  her, 
romance  had  ceased  entirely  to  exist  when,  all  those  years  ago, 
it  had  suddenly  flown  out  of  the  window  of  that  ridiculous  little 


SHADOW  53 

house  in  Wandsworth ;  and  now,  at  forty-seven,  she  was  quite 
incapable  of  seeing  any  sort  of  objection  to  so  desirable  an 
alliance  for  Helena  as  that  which  here  presented  itself.  Money 
and  family!  She  went  over  them  again.  What  more  could 
you  want?  And  again  she  saw  how  very  much  "  more  "  there 
was!  Agatha  was  essentially  the  sort  of  person  who  believed 
in  the  irrevocableness  of  marriage,  just  as  she  believed  that, 
for  womankind,  it  was  a  sort  of  miraculous  panacea.  Her 
word  for  Helena  was  "  discontented,"  and  well  —  if  you  were 
discontented  after  you  were  married  at  least  you  had  the  de- 
cency not  to  talk  about  it. 

Angela  Richardson-Courtney  (Jerome's  sister  who  had  mar- 
ried the  American)  sent  along  an  invitation  within  a  week  of 
her  knowledge  of  the  engagement;  she  was  anxious,  she  said, 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  her  future  sister-in-law.  The  ad- 
mission to  her  husband  of  an  overwhelming  curiosity  to  see 
what  sort  of  creature  Jerome  was  marrying  may  have  been 
merely  another  method  of  expressing  the  same  thing.  But, 
anyway,  Helena  went  to  Courtney  Towers,  stayed  a  week  and 
returned,  to  be  plied  with  numerous  questions  from  an  agitated 
family.  She  showed,  however,  a  strange  reluctance  to  discuss 
either  her  visit  or  her  prospective  sister-in-law.  It  struck  her 
as  incongruous,  somehow,  that  her  mothef  should  seem  to  think 
she  had  been  expected  to  eat  with  her  knife;  and  to  talk  a  sort 
of  jargon  that  no  one  outside  Yorkshire  could  understand. 
But  she  conceded,  in  Agatha's  phrase,  that  Mrs.  Richardson- 
Courtney  was  a  "  very  great  lady  indeed,"  adding,  with  that 
quiet  air  of  finality  from  which  there  was  no  appeal,  that  she 
was  also  a  snob.  /A  hard  saying  that,  to  Agatha,  who  was 
wholly  incapable  01  imagining  a  snob  at  the  top  of  the  social 
ladder;  the  word  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  one  thing 
only  —  the  undignified  struggle  in  which  one  indulged  at  the 
bottom.  \  * 

As  forthe  great  lady  herself,  she  wrote  to  her  brother,  a 
trifle  darkly  perhaps,  that  she  had  discovered  something  even 
more  obstinate  than  the  Courtney  mouth  —  and  that  was  the 
Helena  Morden  chin.  Angela  had  perceived  that  Helena  pos- 
sessed "  ideas,"  but  ideas,  of  course,  were  only  dangerous  in  a 
woman  when  she  acted  upon  them,  and  that  was  not  very  often. 
Ideas,  in  theory,  were  picturesque  enough:  Angela  passed  Hel- 


54  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

ena's  possession  of  them  with  no  more  than  a  friendly  nod  of 
recognition  —  the  same  nod  with  which  she  indicated  her  con- 
sciousness of  Helena's  claim  to  good  looks.  Her  dexterous 
prose  touched  on  all  these  things  with  the  imponderability  of  a 
gossamer-thread,  but  she  spared  her  brother  her  written  ap- 
proval of  his  fiancee's  satisfactory  breeding.  There  were,  it 
seemed,  certain  things  which  if  you  were  wise  you  did  not  say 
to  Jerome  Courtney. 


Nevertheless,  there  were  moments  when  Helena  revealed 
(even  to  her  mother)  just  a  hint  of  that  uncertainty  and  bewil- 
derment which  Angela  had  noticed  and  which,  indeed,  were 
sweeping  her  off  her  feet. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  Agatha  said  to  her  sharply  one  day,  "  how 
you  can  talk  like  that  of  the  man  you  have  promised  to  marry." 

"That's  just  it,"  Helena  had  asserted.  "I  didn't  promise, 
and  I  can't  remember  that  he  ever  asked  me." 

Agatha,  cautiously  feeling  her  way,  had  remembered  that 
little  volume  of  Tennyson  with  its  heavily  scored  passage,  and 
she  said :  "  Of  course,  dear,  you  can't  expect  things  to  happen 
quite  as  they  happen  in  books." 

Helena  was  coming  to  believe  that  was  true:  yet  twenty  times 
a  week  she  decided  that  she  did  not  want  to  marry  anyone  at  all 
—  certainly  that  she  did  not  want  to  marry  Jerome  Courtney. 
She  told  herself  that  she  liked  him,  of  course;  she  was  aware 
that  she  respected  and  admired  him,  and,  too,  that  she  had  a 
lofty  opinion  of  his  character.  The  essential  Eve  in  her  was 
gratified  by  the  evidence  of  his  business  capability,  for  success, 
after  all,  has  its  charm,  and  a  powerful  masculine  mentality, 
say  what  you  will,  is  always  a  compelling  factor  in  the  eternal 
game  of  the  sexes,  invigorating  whilst  it  fortifies.  Helena  felt 
these  things ;  recognised  that  in  matters  of  intellect  the  Atalan- 
tean  qualities  meant  a  good  deal  to  her.  She  would  not  have 
liked  to  have  been  loved  by  a  fool.  But  in  her  feeling  for 
Jerome  Courtney  there  was  no  touch  of  romance;  he  did  not 
thrill  her;  did  not  once  find  the  key  to  that  "  something  "  deep 
down  within  her  which  clamoured  so  persistently  for  deliver- 
ance. This  that  she  felt  —  this  calm,  level-headed  approval 


SHADOW  55 

and  cool  deliberate  amity  —  was  surely  not  what  the  poets  and 
novelists  meant  by  "  love."  But  it  might  be,  after  all,  that  mar- 
riage —  even  though  one  went  to  it  devoid  of  that  great  ro- 
mantic feeling  of  which  she  had  dreamed  —  did  ultimately 
provide  the  "  other  "  things,  did  come  to  give  that  meaning  and 
purpose  to  life  which,  ever  since  she  had  begun  to  comprehend 
the  facts  of  existence,  she  had  seemed  to  lack.  There  was,  too, 
the  possibility  that  she  might  have  children.  Helena,  rather 
nale,  would  draw  in  her  breath  at  the  thought,  until  she  remem- 
bered Gertrude's  outburst  of  anger  before  Adrian  was  born,  and 
the  things  that  Gertrude  and  her  mother  had  said  of  Lucy  who 
was  already  expecting  a  second  child,  though  she  had  been 
warned  against  having  any  more  children.  Her  mother,  Helena 
remembered,  had  blamed  the  Rev.  John;  Gertrude  had  blamed 
Lucy,  calling  her  a  Puritanic  little  fool.  Their  phrases  had  a 
way  of  floating  menacingly  back  to  Helena.  No,  an  orgy  of 
motherhood  was  certainly  not  what  she  wanted.  She  would 
hate  to  be  discussed  —  like  that.  People  talked  as  though  mar- 
riage (no  mention  of  love! )  was  the  Open  Sesame  of  a  woman's 
life.  Very  well!  She  was  going  to  find  out.  For  herself,  and 
once  for  all,  she  would  know.  It  was  a  risk,  but  anything  was 
better  than  the  stagnation  of  the  last  five  years.  Besides,  One 
must  be  venturesome  and  fortunate.  What  is  one  young  for 
else? 


So  on  a  windy  October  morning,  and  very  quietly,  Helena 
and  Jerome  were  married  in  the  Registry  Office  at  Rattenby. 
It  was  Helena  who  had  vetoed  church  and  ceremony.  "  I 
won't  be  married  at  all  if  I've  got  to  have  all  that  fuss!  "  she 
had  said,  and  Jerome,  to  whom,  as  a  matter  of  ethics,  it  made 
no  sort  of  difference  whatsoever,  was  secretly  relieved  to  be 
spared  the  pageant.  Instead  of  white  satin  and  orange-blos- 
som, Helena  wore  a  plain  tweed  costume  and  a  close-fitting 
hat,  because  immediately  after  the  formality  in  that  poky  little 
room  they  started  on  the  motor  tour  that  was  to  be  their  honey- 
moon. There  was  no  reception,  and  no  guests  were  asked. 
"  No  anything,"  as  Agatha  put  it,  in  blankest  disappointment. 
To  her  there  was  something  almost  indecent  in  the  whole  busi- 
ness. She  knew  people  did  get  married  in  a  registry  office,  of 


56  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

course,  but  it  was  a  thing  no  Burke  had  ever  been  known  to  do. 
A  hole-and-corner  wedding!  It  would  be  difficult  to  believe 
that  Helena  was  really  married! 

Yet  it  seemed  to  Helena  that  it  was  an  appallingly  easy  thing 
to  accomplish  —  this  business  of  marriage.  A  few  moments 
only,  but  in  them  she  had  signed  away  her  old  name,  her  old 
life  and,  perhaps,  her  old  freedom.  The  man  at  her  side 
seemed  almost  a  stranger.  She  had  married  someone  she  had 
only  recently  met,  someone  she  hardly  knew  —  and  for  just 
one  moment  she  hated  him;  hated  him  because  he  was  there, 
because  he  always  would  be  there,  and  most  of  all  because  he 
didn't  understand.  The  moment  passed,  and  a  very  kindly 
voice  was  saying: 

"  I  should  button  up,  dear.  There's  a  touch  of  the  east  about 
this  wind,"  and  even  while  she  hesitated  Jerome  turned  and 
began  to  button  up  the  collar  of  the  long  coat  she  had  slipped 
over  the  tweed  costume  her  mother  had  so  much  deplored. 
Helena  twisted  in  her  seat  a  little,  raising  her  chin,  but  even 
so  she  could  feel  Jerome's  warm  hands  on  her  skin,  and  for 
one  brief  second  she  thought  he  was  going  to  kiss  her.  She 
hoped  passionately  that  he  would  not.  Above  all  things,  just 
then,  she  did  not  want  to  be  kissed. 

But  Jerome  made  no  attempt  to  kiss  her,  and  Helena  did  not 
know  that  his  fingers  trembled  still  from  contact  with  the 
smooth  white  curve  of  her  throat.  She  sat  quite  still,  her  eyes 
gazing  ahead  at  the  wind-flecked,  sun-dappled  moor  out- 
stretched to  right  and  left.  And  she  was  thinking  of  what  her 
mother  had  said  —  that  she  couldn't  expect  things  to  happen 
quite  as  they  happen  in  books.  Yes,  that  must  be  it:  she  had 
expected  the  impossible;  wanted  too  much,  and  yet  .  .  .  and 
yet  .  .  .  even  Gertrude  and  Lucy  had  loved  their  husbands. 
But  presently  her  thoughts  wandered  away  into  a  kind  of  won- 
derment that  she  should  still  feel  the  touch  of  her  husband's 
fingers  against  the  curve  of  her  throat.  .  .  . 


They  stayed  that  night  at  an  old-fashioned  inn  at  the  other 
side  of  the  moor.  Their  bedroom  window  looked  across  to 
Haffington  Ridge;  a  wild  night  of  wind  and  cloud  and  shimmer- 


SHADOW  57 

ing  stars  had  shut  it  out  from  view,  but  Helena  knew  it  was 
there.  Once,  years  ago,  she  had  had  tea  with  her  sisters  in  this 
very  inn.  .  .  .  Careless,  free,  unfettered  she  had  been  in  those 
days  and  astoundingly  healthily  hungry.  There  had  been  eggs 
for  tea  and  piles  of  freshly  cut  bread  and  butter.  Smoothing 
her  hair  before  the  glass  in  the  big  bedroom  she  dismissed  its 
memory  that  brought  a  lump  to  her  throat.  She  had  not 
known,  till  now,  how  happy  those  old  free  days  had  been. 

It  rained  heavily  all  the  night  and  the  wind  moaned  dismally 
round  the  creaking  old  house  that,  desolate  and  grey,  looked 
away  over  to  Haffington  Ridge.  Helena  could  not  sleep:  she 
lay  staring  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  strange  room,  listening 
to  the  wind  and  the  rain,  wishing,  almost,  that  she  was  out  there 
in  their  midst.  .  .  . 

She  was  up,  next  morning,  in  time  to  see  the  sun  heave  him- 
self proudly  over  the  shoulder  of  the  huge  hill,  and  was  dressed 
and  ready  to  go  out  when  Jerome  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"Hullo!  "he  said,  "is  it  late?" 

"  No,"  said  Helena,  "  two  hours  yet  to  breakfast."  She 
found  it  a  little  difficult  to  believe  that  die  man  sitting  up  in  bed 
and  looking  at  her  out  of  a  pair  of  sleepy  dark  brown  eyes  was 
really  her  husband.  She  had  never  seen  him  before  with 
roughened  hair.  He  looked  like  a  rather  confused  and  happy 
schoolboy.  He  seemed  more  than  ever  a  stranger  —  even  after 
last  night. 

"  What  sort  of  a  morning  is  it?  "  he  asked,  stifling  a  yawn. 

"  Fine,"  said  Helena,  "  after  the  rain." 

"Rain?  Didn't  hear  it,"  said  the  man.  "Couldn't  you 
sleep?  " 

"  No,"  said  Helena,  and  then,  "  I'm  going  out  for  a  walk 
before  breakfast  —  over  the  moor." 

She  moved  across  the  room  and  smiled  down  at  him,  her 
hand  on  the  door-k~ob. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

When  she  had  shut  herself  out  of  the  room  she  remembered 
that  she  had  not  kissed  him.  And  Jerome  remembered  it,  too. 
For  some  time  he  lay  quite  still,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  with  but 
one  recurring  thought: 

"  She's  got  to  love  me.  She  must.  She  must.  .  .I'll  make 
her." 


58  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

There  was  determination  in  those  brown  eyes,  but  also  there 
was  an  infinite  tenderness.  They  expressed  a  pathetic  inability 
to  believe  that  she  could  never  come  to  love  him,  for  he  loved 
her  so  much  —  she  held  his  heart  in  her  hands,  and  they  were 
cold,  cold.  .  .  .  But  one  day  they  should  be  warm  and  glowing. 
Lying  there  in  the  big  bed  in  the  sunlit  room,  with  her  empty 
place  beside  him,  he  swore  it  gently  to  himself. 


Helena  walked  abroad  in  the  chill  freshness  of  the  October 
morning,  her  face  lifted  to  the  south-west  wind  that  sung  in  the 
trees  and  shook  down  from  them  their  golden  glory.  Through 
the  hurrying  scudding  clouds  came  dazzling  beams  of  sunlight 
and  patches  of  bright  blue  sky.  The  rainy  night  had  converted 
the  ground  beneath  her  feet  into  an  amazing,  sparkling  emer- 
ald. Moorland  birds  flew  overhead,  high  above  the  rain- 
drenched  earth,  calling  shrilly  as  they  shot  away  into  the  un- 
known. A  morning  of  flying  sunlight  and  hurrying,  fitful 
shadow,  answering  some  deep  unspoken  need  in  Helena's  soul. 
She  strode  on  towards  the  grey  shoulder  of  Haffington  Ridge, 
luminous  and  enticing  in  the  distance.  .  .  . 

8 

Jerome  came  to  meet  her,  and  in  his  hand  he  held  a  little 
nosegay  of  violets  —  tempted  into  a  second  blooming  by  the 
mild  south-west  wind  and  the  October  sunshine.  He  had  found 
them,  he  said,  in  the  little  wood  at  the  back  of  the  inn.  They 
were  the  small  dark  variety  like  those  that  bloom  in  Italy  in 
the  first  freshness  of  spring.  Helena  had  never  been  in  Italy, 
but  a  girl  she  had  known  at  school  had  gone  there  once,  and 
had  sent  her  just  such  violets  crushed  in  a  letter,  and  had  writ- 
ten that  the  graves  of  Keats  and  Shelley  just  then  were  covered 
with  them.  .  .  .  She  wondered  why  she  should  remember  that 
now.  .  .  . 

They  had  breakfast  in  the  window  of  a  room  overlooking  an 
old-fashioned  garden,  with  a  tangle  of  orchard  beyond.  From 
where  she  sat  Helena  could  see  a  glowing  cherry-tree  in  full 
autumn  dress  shaming  the  still  green  gowns  of  its  neighbours. 


SHADOW  59 

In  the  garden  were  clumps  of  Michaelmas  daisies  and  tall  white 
marguerites,  golden-hearted,  growing  on  each  side  of  an  old 
flagged  centre-path,  over  which  strayed  a  riot  of  bronze  and 
orange  nasturtiums.  Here  and  there  the  bright  spear  of  the 
tritoma  plant  shot  up  into  view,  and  one  blood-coloured  rose 
bared  a  full  heart  to  the  warm  west  wind,  whilst  across  the 
deep,  mullioned  window  dropped  very  gently  a  golden  fairy 
shower  —  drifting  slowly  and  tenderly  down  from  larch  and 
lime.  .  .  . 

At  Helena's  breast  were  Jerome's  surprising  violets,  and  their 
thin  sweet  scent  rose  suddenly  and  drenched  her  in  emotion. 
Her  eyes,  resting  on  the  old-fashioned  country  garden,  grew 
suddenly  misty;  something  was  taking  her  heart  and  squeezing 
it,  though  very,  very  gently.  She  wondered  vaguely  if  she 
were  going  to  cry.  She  had  not  cried  for  years.  There  had 
been  so  little  to  cry  about.  .  .  . 

Then  she  looked  away  from  the  garden  and  her  eyes  rested 
upon  her  husband.  He  had  been  sitting  there  quite  quietly, 
steadily  regarding  her.  His  eyes  were  kind  and  tender  —  as 
they  had  been  earlier  that  morning  when  he  had  asked  her  if 
she  had  not  slept.  They  met  her  own  tranquilly,  undisturbed. 
Impossible  not  to  know  what  he  was  thinking.  Slow  colour 
crept  into  her  cheeks:  she  smiled,  and  to  Jerome  her  smile  was 
like  the  morning  —  all  sun  and  shadow. 

"  Coffee  or  tea?  "  he  asked,  smiling  back. 

"  Coffee,  please,"  said  Helena,  and  kept  her  voice  from 
trembling. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


THEY  came  home  six  weeks  later.  A  sunset,  typically  No- 
vember's own,  reddened  the  sky.  Through  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees  the  wind  whistled  ominously,  and 
in  everything  the  eye  rested  upon  there  was  a  hint  of  decay. 
The  same  tristful  wind  which  sighed  through  the  dismantled 
trees  whirled  the  dead  leaves  tempestuously  through  the  keen 
air  —  more  than  ever  to-day  they  seemed  to  Helena  as  "  ghosts 
from  an  enchanter  fleeing."  (No  one,  she  thought,  who  knew 
that  line  of  Shelley's  could  ever  think  of  dead  and  whirling 
leaves  in  any  other  way.)  Save  for  that  one  red  patch  in  the 
sky  there  seemed  no  colour  at  all  in  the  world.  The  cold  fin- 
ger of  November  had  bleached  the  universe.  .  .  . 

Jerome's  grey  car  wound  itself  round  the  long  length  of  the 
Yorkshire  roads,  and  Helena,  comfortably  ensconced  in  her 
corner,  looked  out  upon  the  pageant  of  the  passing  of  autumn, 
and  found  in  it  something  unexpectedly  pathetic.  Autumn 
was  the  complement  of  summer,  but  it  was  also  the  harbinger 
of  winter,  and  it  was  of  winter,  somehow,  that  one  thought 
to-day.  It  was  almost  possible  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  stern 
figure  lurking,  deliberative,  among  the  shadows. 

Helena,  as  she  sat  in  her  becushioned  car,  looked  remarkably 
well.  Her  warm  coat  was  close-buttoned  to  her  chin.  Her 
hair,  with  its  hint  of  ripe  corn,  showed  just  here  and  there  like 
a  deep  halo  beneath  the  small  close-fitting  hat  she  wore.  In 
the  fading  daylight  her  eyes  were  black,  and  with  the  assertion 
of  the  last  bit  of  colour  in  the  sky  the  tips  of  the  upcurled  lashes 
were  touched  with  gold.  There  was  a  note  of  wistfulness  in  the 
curve  of  the  finely  shaped  mouth,  which  looked  redder  than 
usual  to-day  —  perhaps  because  the  November  breeze  had 
beaten  out  the  fine  colour  from  her  cheeks. 

60 


SHADOW  61 

She  looked  like  a  gorgeous  white  butterfly  dusted  with  the 
gold  of  pollen,  or  a  porcelain  vase  with  the  wan  light  of  the 
winter  sun  on  it.  Her  hair  and  her  mouth  —  and  that  red 
patch  in  the  sky  —  made  the  one  delicate  note  of  colour  in  a 
sombre  landscape. 

She  mused  a  little  as  she  sat  there,  her  eyes  shifting  at  times 
from  the  hurrying  countryside  to  the  firm,  broad  hack  of  the 
man  at  the  wheel.  Jerome  was  driving  his  own  car;  it  was,  she 
knew,  an  occupation  he  delighted  in.  You  had  only  to  look  at 
him  to  know  it  too.  From  where  she  sat  Helena  could  see  the 
firm  grip  of  his  hands  on  the  steering-wheel ;  the  line  of  profile 
revealed  to  her  showed  the  half  of  a  masterful  mouth,  the  sharp 
angle  of  an  obstinate  chin  and  one  keen  eye  fixed  on  the  leaf- 
strewn  road  beyond.  A  strong,  capable  man  he  looked:  her 
mother  was  right.  The  thought  struck  her,  as  it  had  done  be- 
fore, that  he  deserved  more  of  her  than  she  had  given  him, 
more  than  she  could  ever  give  him.  His  very  masterfulness 
had  its  attraction;  she  admired  him  intensely.  There  was  a 
force  about  him  that  after  six  weeks  of  married  intimacy  drew 
her  in  spite  of  herself,  but  which  yet  left  her  free  to  look  from 
the  outside  at  her  emotion  —  to  stand  afar  off  and  view  it  as 
though  it  concerned  someone  else.  It  never  entirely  absorbed  or 
overwhelmed  her.  She  was  so  appallingly  level-headed  —  so 
analytical  —  about  it,  and  she  had,  all  the  time,  a  wild  insane 
desire  to  be  rushed  off  her  feet.  Had  Jerome  been  capable  of 
satisfying  this  unreasoning  longing  he  might  have  had  of  her 
all  that  he  wished.  But  he  was  not;  even  his  masterfulness 
could  not  achieve  it.  Helena  had  succumbed  once  to  that,  but 
could  scarcely  do  so  again,  for  now  she  recognised  it  for  what  it 
was,  and  something  of  its  magnetism  had  gone  with  the  coming 
of  that  knowledge.  What  she  wanted  most  of  all  (the  thing 
that  would  have  made  all  the  difference)  was  still  denied  her 
—  community  of  interests  and  ideas.  She  sighed,  sometimes, 
with  the  instinct  of  gregarious  humanity,  for  intellectual  com- 
panionship, for  the  kindred  spirit  than  which  in  all  the  world 
there  is  nothing  more  difficult  to  encounter.  It  was  rather  like 
that  crock  of  gold  where  the  rainbow  ends,  for  which  you 
looked  as  a  child.  ...  As  you  grew  older  you  began  to  realise 
that  nobody  ever  had  found  it.  ... 


62  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


All  the  same,  it  was,  if  you  came  to  think  of  it,  a  little  de- 
pressing to  realise  that  the  man  you  had  married  looked  at  the 
world  from  an  entirely  different  standpoint;  a  little  danger- 
ous, too,  if  you  were  as  sure  as  was  Helena  that  your  own  was 
on  a  higher  altitude.  She  had  seen  already,  and  not  without  a 
pang,  that  Jerome  regarded  her  passionate  idealism  with  the 
slightly  amused  air  of  a  master  of  facts.  Quite  honestly  he  w«as 
incapable  of  sharing  his  wife's  faith  in  mankind:  her  enthu- 
siasms or  her  indignations.  (That  was  what  struck  Helena 
hardest  —  his  apparent  inability  to  feel  indignant  at  the  wrong 
life-  did  to  so  many. )  To  Jerome  it  was  simply  incontrovertible 
that  power  and  pelf  ruled  the  world.  You  might  not  think  it 
right  that  they  should,  but  they  did.  That  was  the  stark  fact, 
and  it  was  not  going  to  be  altered  in  a  thousand  years.  He  saw 
no  meaning,  no  pathos,  no  appeal  in  humanity  en  bloc.  If  you 
wished  to  arouse  his  sympathy  you  must  present  your  isolated 
case.  He  would  not,  Helena  felt,  be  able  to  see,  unaffected,  a 
single  instance  of  pain  or  distress,  but  the  spectacle  of  a  world 
in  travail  left  him  unmoved.  His  was  the  kind  of  mind  that 
registered  facts  —  simply,  and  in  the  main  accurately.  It  did 
not,  as  Helena's  was  apt  to  do,  turn  them  over  and  over,  looking 
at  them  from  every  standpoint,  letting  them  sink  in  and  hurt. 
He  was  not  callous;  he  would,  she  felt,  be  humanely  ameliora- 
tive, passionlessly  utilitarian,  but  the  gods  had  endowed  him 
with  no  desire  for  tidying  up  the  world :  its  loose  ends  and  torn 
edges  neither  irritated  nor  distressed  him,  and  he  thought  about 
the  world,  on  the  whole,  as  little  as  possible. 

It  was  precisely  there  that  Helena,  during  these  clairvoyant 
six  weeks,  had  seen  the  difference  between  them  to  lie.  Her 
feelings  were  in  the  melting-pot  before  Jerome's  had  left  the 
refrigerator. 

In  his  own  fashion  Jerome  realised  that,  too,  though  it  would 
not  have  occurred  to  him  to  express  it  in  that  way.  There  was, 
he  thought,  a  good  deal  of  high  pressure  about  Helena's  emo- 
tions; they  bubbled  over  quite  suddenly,  to  your  utter  bewilder- 
ment. That,  really,  was  the  joke  of  it  —  the  unexpectedness  of 
such  an  occurrence.  For  you'd  never  think  it  to  look  at  her. 
She  was  so  calm,  so  still.  ...  It  was  with  that  quiet  outward 


SHADOW  63 

seeming  Jerome  had  first  fallen  in  love.  He  admired,  above  all 
things,  serenity  in  a  woman,  and  Helena,  that  first  evening  he 
had  set  eyes  on  her,  had  looked  as  if  she  could  keep  still. 
She  could,  he  found.  She  could  do  it  so  well,  in  fact,  that  you 
might  never  suspect  the  fire  beneath  the  ice.  .  .  . 

But  to  Helena  there  was  still  another  thing  these  six  weeks 
in  Scotland  had  revealed.  She  had  seen  (and  not  without  a  lit- 
tle inward  sinking  of  an  obdurate  ego)  that  Jerome  would  have 
loved  her  had  she  possessed  the  brain  and  outlook  of  a  pigeon 
—  and  she  did  not  want  to  be  loved  like  that. 


Her  face  was  wistful  to-day  as  she  sat  there  passing  those 
six  weeks  in  review:  for  to  her  eager  and  unsatisfied  spirit  it 
seemed  as-  if,  even  now,  she  had  not  lived  at  all.  Yet  one  big 
instalment  of  experience  had  come  to  her.  She  was  a  wife. 
With  her  husband  she  had  been  to  the  Highlands  and  back  in  a 
fast-running  grey-padded  car.  They  had  stayed  at  fashionable 
hotels  and  met  people  of  influence  and  position.  She  had 
worn  many  beautiful  frocks  and  two  at  least  that  had  been  ex- 
quisite. People  had  paid  her  litt.le  polished  compliments. 
She  had  heard  whispered  comments  and  had  known  herself  en- 
vied and  admired.  But  she  sat  there  to-day  with  her  wistful 
eyes  fixed  on  a  pair  of  broad  male  shoulders  and  wondered 
what  it  was  that  somehow  she  had  managed,  after  all,  to  miss. 

The  big  house  on  the  hill  that  was  henceforth  to  be  her 
home  loomed  up  at  a  sudden  bend  in  the  road  and  confronted 
tter.  The  grey  car  began  to  climb  the  hill  and  Helena  sat  up, 
collecting  her  books  and  wraps,  remembering  suddenly  that  her 
father  and  mother  were  dining  with  them  that  evening.  Prob- 
ably they  were  there  already  —  eagerly  awaiting  them.  Her 
mother,  she  knew,  would  be  effusive,  would  kiss  her  on  both 
cheeks  and  tell  her  how  well  she  was  looking.  Her  father, 
quite  as  certainly,  would  remark  that  marriage  appeared  to 
agree  with  her,  just  as  he  had  said  it  to  Gertrude  and  to  Lucy. 
He  was  so  glad  to  have  his  girls  married,  he  would  never  for 
one  moment  have  permitted  himself  to  think  otherwise.  Mar- 
riage, he  felt,  ought  to  agree  with  women,  anyway;  it  was  what 
they  were  here  for.  .  .  . 


64  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

The  car  turned  in  at  the  dark-painted  gate,  swung  expectantly 
back  on  its  hinges,  and  Helena  noticed  that  they  had  fixed 
a  beaten-copper  plate  to  it,  bearing  the  one  word  "  Windward." 
That  had  been  her  suggestion,  since  (as  Jerome  had  insisted) 
the  house  "  had  to  have  a  name."  "  Windward  "  had  at  least 
some  claim  to  distinction,  and  even  more  to  truth;  for  surely 
there  was  never  a  house  through  which  the  breezes  chased  each 
other  more  tempestuously.  Helena  had  rejected  "  The  Moors," 
"  Moorside  "  and  "  Moorview  "  with  quiet  scorn  of  the  obvious, 
and  "  Windward  "  had  triumphed. 

Following  a  straight  neat  drive  the  car  drew  up  in  a  few 
seconds  before  the  front  door,  and  jumping  out,  Helena  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  critically  up  at  the  house  which  hence- 
forth was  to  be  her  home  —  for  all  the  world  as  though  she  had 
never  seen  it  before.  Somehow  to-day  it  looked  aggressively 
new  (despite  its  grey  stone)  and,  too,  aggressively  prosperous. 
There  was  about  it  none  of  that  quiet  resolute  dignity  which 
hung  like  a  close  garment  about  the  old  inconvenient  house 
farther  along  the  road  where  all  her  childhood  and  young  girl- 
hood had  been  spent.  "  Windward,"  as  yet,  had  no  memories 
of  its  own.  It  stood  there,  desolate,  stark  —  a  sort  of  mush- 
room growth  that  had  sprung  up  in  the  night  and  had  not  as 
yet  had  time  to  get  used  to  its  own  existence.  It  seemed  to 
apologise  for  its  brightness  and  cleanness,  as  though  it  had 
no  right  there  upon  the  lift  of  the  moor  that  was  as  old  as 
time. 

In  some  queer  fashion,  too,  it  seemed  this  afternoon  to  be 
apologising  for  the  man's  cycle  propped  up  rather  helplessly 
against  the  wall  of  the  porch.  The  front  wheel  was  badly 
buckled,  and  the  handles  bent  —  sign  and  symbol  of  someone's 
serious  spill.  For  a  second  Helena's  thoughts  jumped  forward 
to  her  father  and  Walter,  for  both  were  reckless  riders,  and  that 
hill  outside  was  horribly  dangerous.  Only  a  year  ago  a  man 
had  been  killed  there  .  .  .  had  broken  his  neck  against  the 
solid  Yorkshire  wall  which  ran  along  obliquely  and  unexpect- 
edly at  the  bottom.  .  .  . 

Jerome,  who  loved  his  car  as  another  man  might  his  horse, 
was  already  making  for  the  garage  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Helena  stood  there  alone,  gazing  idiotically  at  that  badly 
buckled  bicycle  as  if,  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of  the 


SHADOW  65 

house  had  done,  it  hypnotised  her.  She  pushed  open  the  fold- 
ing glass  door  that  counteracted  the  too-brazen  hospitality  of 
that  wide-flung  outer  portal,  and  went  in. 


Years  afterwards  Helena  remembered  just  how  it  happened, 
just  how  strangely  excited  she  had  been,  as  if  something  of  tre- 
mendous import  to  herself  had  come  to  pass.  The  incident 
contrived  to  get  itself  inscribed  on  her  brain  —  the  advancing 
figure  of  her  mother,  hands  outstretched;  her  father  coming 
out  of  a  smoky  background;  the  parental  kisses  and  embraces; 
her  own  little  feeling  of  repugnance  because  her  father  exuded, 
as  he  always  had  exuded,  the  smell  of  stale  tobacco;  the  pleas- 
ant tinkle  of  the  tea-things  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  her  moth- 
er's voice  blurting  out  her  little  bit  of  news. 

"  My  dear !  there's  been  an  accident !  Really,  too  bad  on 
your  first  evening." 

But  above  all  she  remembered  always  that  queer  pounding 
of  her  heart,  a  deep  painful  thudding  working  quickly  upwards 
to  her  throat,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  ceasing  altogether,  as 
though  the  tiresome  organ  had  suddenly  realised  its  own  ab- 
surdity. She  listened  quite  calmly  to  her  mother's  account 
of  the  accident,  wondering  what  it  was  she  had  for  that  instant 
feared  —  and  for  whom. 

"  It  was  at  the  foot  of  that  dreadful  hill  .  .  .  just  as  we  came 
along.  A  young  man  .  .  .  oh,  guile  young  ...  on  a  bicycle 
.  .  .  tyok  the  hill  much  too  quickly.  .  .  ." 

Helena  heard  herself  enquiring  if  the  young  man  was  hurt. 

"  Broken  arm,  by  the  look  of  it,"  said  her  lather,  unusually 
laconic.  "  Shaken  up,  too,  you  know.  .  .  .  We  had  him 
brought  in  here  ...  in  the  morning-room  .  .  .  felt  sure  you 
and  Jerome  wouldn't  mind." 

"  Of  course  not.     You've  sent  for  the  doctor?  " 

"  He  insisted  that  we  shouldn't."  This  was  her  mother, 
awkwardly  apologetic.  "  He  is  staying  at  Haxby  Wyke  and 
says  he  can  easily  get  across  there  to-night." 

"How?  On  that  buckled  machine,  and  with  a  broken 
arm?  "  The  questions  were  almost  a  challenge;  Agatha  be- 
came more  apologetic  than  ever. 


66  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  He  said  something,  my  dear,  about  a  train." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here?  " 

About  half  an  hour,  they  thought;  they  knew  they  came 
early  to  avoid  the  dark.  Helena  threw  down  her  wraps  on  an 
adjacent  chair  and  walked  over  to  the  telephone.  They  heard 
her  call  up  Dr.  Walton,  and  give  clear,  crisp  directions  to  the 
maid  at  the  other  end.  The  receiver  went  back  into  position 
with  a  little  snap.  Agatha,  beside  this  arrogant  young  daughter 
of  hers,  felt  like  a  child  of  six.  Of  course  she  ought  to  have 
sent  for  the  doctor,  but  the  young  man  was  so  very  insistent, 
and  besides,  it  wasn't  her  house.  It  was  just  like  Helena  to 
repair  the  omission  in  that  way,  without  saying  a  word.  She 
was  difficult;  it  was  no  use  to  pretend  otherwise;  an  extraor- 
dinarily self-possessed  young  person,  always  adjusting  other 
people's  mistakes,  or  giving  you  the  impression  that  she  could 
if  she  wanted  to.  And  here  she  was  now,  looking  at  you  with 
that  distressingly  straight  glance,  and  asking  a  seemingly  sim- 
ple question  with  that  dull  even  note  in  her  voice  that  Agatha 
had  never  yet  learnt  how  to  combat,  and  probably  never  would. 

"  Do  you  know  who  he  is,  mother  —  what  his  name  is?  " 

And  of  course  Agatha  didn't.  It  would  happen  like  that.  It 
simply  hadn't  occurred  to  her  to  inquire.  It  hadn't  occurred 
to  either  of  them  .  .  .  they  had  been  so  upset  ...  so  flur- 
ried. .  .  . 

They  breathed,  the  pair  of  them,  a  little  sigh  of  relief  as 
Helena  opened  the  morning-room  door  and  disappeared. 


There  on  the  threshold  a  strong  smell  of  brandy  assailed 
her,  and  her  spirit  of  youthful  impatience  relented  somewhat. 
At  least  they  had  had  the  sense  to  give  him  that,  and  someone 
had  even  remembered  to  make  up  the  fire!  It  flickered  now  in 
a  jerky  blue  flame  that  lighted  up  the  half-dark  room.  The 
windows  were  open;  the  curtains  flapping  wide  in  the  cold 
breeze  that  was  sweeping  into  the  room.  A  rustling  poplar, 
guarding  the  house  like  a  sentinel,  gave  the  impression  of 
rain,  and  that  faint  reassuring  tinkle  of  the  tea-things  made  you 
think,  pleasurably,  of  a  fire  and  a  close-drawn  comfortable 
chair.  Helena  could  just  see  that  the  man  lying  sideways  in 


SHADOW  67 

the  chair  by  the  window  was  young,  and  it  was  quite  easy  to 
tell  that  the  arm  hanging  limply  over  the  chair  was  broken. 
The  blue  flame  of  the  fire,  resting  fitfully  upon  the  motionless 
figure,  revealed  to  her  a  white  face,  rather  tense,  as  if  with  pain. 
The  eyes  were  shut,  but  as  she  entered  they  opened  and  a  voice 
—  it  was  a  rather  charming  voice  —  said  from  out  the  twi- 
light: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  afraid  I'm  being  a  very  great 
nuisance." 

Again  to  Helena  there  came  that  little  thrill  of  excitement 
surging  over  her  resolute  calm. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  apologise,"  she  said,  "  I'm  so  sorry  you've 
come  to  grief,"  and  she  turned  to  rescue  the  white  curtain  from 
the  misty  dampness  of  the  November  afternoon.  The  red  patch 
in  the  sky  had  faded  out.  Before  Helena  now  the  great  moor 
stretched  away  like  some  colossal  monochrome.  Heavy  banks 
of  cloud  shut  out  the  thin,  new  moon  that  earlier  she  had  seen 
straggling  faintly  up  the  heavens.  She  shivered  a  little  while 
she  stood  there,  with  some  difficulty  securing  the  window  against 
the  strong  breeze  that  fought  hard  to  drag  it  backwards  from 
her  hands.  There  was  something  this  afternoon  rather  sinister 
in  the  look  of  the  sombre  world  she  was  shutting  outside.  The 
half-dark  room  and  the  warm  blue  flame  of  the  fire  were  sud- 
denly reassuring,  comforting  elements.  She  turned  back  to 
them  —  and  to  the  young  man  in  the  chair.  Upon  him  she  let 
her  eyes  rest,  a  shade  interrogatively  perhaps;  a  little,  just  a 
very  little  (and  most  surprisingly)  at  a  loss  for  what  to  say. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  sound  of  familiar  voices  drifting  in 
with  that  pleasant  music  of  the  teacups,  through  the  half-open 
door;  she  wondered,  just  for  a  fraction  of  time,  if  they  would 
remember  to  bring  him  some  tea,  and  then,  quite  abruptly,  her 
thoughts  came  to  an  end,  for  as  she  looked  down  upon  the 
young  man  in  the  chair  she  was  once  more  conscious  of  that 
queer,  quite  painful  thudding  of  her  heart.  His  paleness  seized 
sudden  hold  upon  her,  accentuated  as  it  was  by  the  fantastic 
blue  flame  from  the  fire.  Someone  had  loosened  the  soft  col- 
lar of  his  shirt,  and  he  tried  now,  as  she  looked  at  him,  to 
pull  it  round  again  into  position.  The  faint,  uncertain  smile 
with  which  he  relinquished  the  effort,  for  one  brief  second 
turned  up  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 


68  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Helena  most  tremendously  pathetic.  It  was  a  vivid  mouth  — 
a  red  flame  on  ice,  curiously  beautiful.  And  his  hands  were 
beautiful,  too.  It  was  a  trick  of  Helena's  to  notice  hands; 
there  was,  she  fancied,  an  eloquence  about  them  not  to  be  de- 
nied. You  might,  if  you  were  clever  enough,  control  your 
mouth  and  your  eyes,  but  your  hands  would  give  you  away, 
after  all.  ...  As  for  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  in  the  chair,  it 
was  impossible  in  this  light  to  discover  anything  at  all  about 
them,  save  that  they  seemed  to  be  fixed  on  her  face  and  that  the 
lashes  which  shaded  them  were  dark.  There  seemed,  too,  to  be 
something  else  about  them  —  something  that  made  you  want  to 
look  at  them  again.  But  that,  whatever  it  was,  was  a  secret 
jealously  guarded  just  now  by  the  impish  flame  from  the  fire. 
Helena's  heart  filled  suddenly  with  compassion :  ardent  concern 
looked  out  of  her  eyes.  And,  above  all,  she  was  oddly  excited ; 
she  wanted  to  speak,  but  was  afraid  lest  her  voice  should  betray 
her.  She  stood  there,  not  even  wondering  why  she  did  so,  or 
why  her  capacity  for  speech  had  so  surprisingly  deserted  her. 
The  stranger,  not  shifting  his  position  in  the  least,  returned 
her  scrutiny  with  interest.  He  saw  a  young  woman,  bare- 
headed, her  hands  deep-buried  in  the  big  pockets  of  the  dark 
coat  she  wore,  regarding  him  from  what  seemed  to  be  an  enor- 
mous height.  Later,  it  was  strange  to  recall  that  first  impres- 
sion of  his  that  she  was  unusually  tall,  because,  actually,  he 
could  give  her  a  good  half-inch.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  her  eyes 
were  really  as  black  as  they  looked  in  that  queer  blue  flame, 
and  if  her  face  were  indeed  the  cold  mask  it  seemed.  Even 
in  this  light  he  could  see  that  her  hair  was  beautiful;  he  could 
trace  the  crisp  wave  in  which  it  swept  back  from  her  forehead, 
and  there  was  a  sheen  on  it,  wavering  and  fitful  now,  as  the 
light  of  the  dancing  blue  flame  leaped  ecstatically  across  it. 
His  eyes  met  hers,  and  for  a  few  seconds  they  remained  thus, 
silently  regarding  each  other  through  the  deepening  twilight. 
It  was  the  man  who  broke  the  spell  —  by  an  indiscreet  move- 
ment of  his  body  in  the  depths  of  his  chair,  and  a  recurrence  of 
that  faint,  upturned  smile,  which  this  time  broke  off  midway 
into  a  little  twist  of  pain.  He  was  suddenly  conscious  that  his 
arm  was  hurting  him  atrociously.  He  saw  a  little  quiver  pass 
over  the  white  face  of  the  girl  —  as  if  something  were  hurting 
her  too.  There  was  a  red-hot  needle  running  up  and  down  his 


SHADOW  69 

arm  in  a  perfectly  sickening  manner:  he  hadn't  known  any- 
thing could  hurt  quite  so  much.  He  wanted  to  go  on  staring 
at  that  white  face  in  the  dusk,  but  his  eyes  wouldn't  keep  open. 
For  a  moment  he  had  a  queer  idea  that  the  white  face  began  to 
dance,  keeping  a  rhythmic  measure  with  the  ecstatic  blue  flame, 
and  that  the  ceiling  had  lowered  itself  several  inches  as  if  in  a 
spiteful  attempt  to  fall  down  and  crush  him.  His  eyes  refused 
altogether  to  regard  any  longer  these  strange  phenomena;  they 
closed  resolutely  against  his  desire  to  know  whether  the  white 
face  was  really  dancing  or  not. 

Helena  came  to  her  senses.  She  poured  out  some  brandy 
and  carried  it  over  to  the  half-unconscious  figure  in  the  chair. 
The  firelight  flickered  eerily  over  the  white  face  on  which  the 
thick  lashes  were  making  long  dark  shadows.  Against  the 
black  cushion  of  the  chair  the  white  face  was  startling  —  like 
ivory  on  ebony.  She  slipped  an  arm  beneath  his  head  and  ad- 
ministered her  draught.  After  a  few  seconds  the  man  opened 
his  eyes  and  found  that  the  red-hot  needle  had  called  a  truce. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  I'm  being  a  most  unholy  nuisance." 

Helena  removed  her  arm  and  turned  to  put  the  empty  glass 
upon  the  table.  It  went  down  with  a  sharp  little  rattle,  because 
for  some  unknown  reason  her  hand  was  trembling. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "  I'm  quite  sure  your  arm  must  be  dread- 
fully painful.  It  was  very  wrong  of  you  to  dare  my  mother  to 
send  for  the  doctor." 

"  But  I  really  don't  want  a  doctor.  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
confounded  nuisance.  If  you'd  just  find  out  for  me  about  that 
train  back  to  Haxby  Wyke.  .  .  ." 

"  The  last  train's  gone,"  said  Helena,  quite  untruthfully, 
"  and  I'm  surprised  you  shouldn't  know  that  a  broken  arm  is 
usually  far  less  painful  when  it's  set." 

"Good  Lord!  you  don't  really  think  it's  broken,  do  you?  " 

"  I  should  say  there  is  no  doubt." 

"  Oh,  good  Lord !  "  the  young  man  said  again,  as  if  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else  at  all  to  say,  "  you  do  seem  positive. 
Do  you  know,  I  never  thought  it  might  be  broken?  But  if  I 
can  hang  out  for  an  hour  or  two  I  can  get  back  to  Haxby  Wyke 
and  Wyatt'll  set  it  for  me.  Wyatt's  a  doctor,  you  know." 

"  Yes  ...  I  guessed  that,  but  you  can't  '  hang  out  for  an 
hour.'  Do  please  be  sensible.  Your  room  is  being  got  ready 


70  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

for  you  now.  .  .  .  I've  already  sent  for  our  own  doctor.  It's 
quite  impossible  for  you  to  go  home  to-night,  and  if  you  say 
anything  more  about  such  a  ridiculous  project  I  shall  begin  to 
think  you're  like  the  young  man  in  Barrie's  book  —  and  that 
you  haven't  really  hurt  yourself  at  all." 

The  corners  of  the  vivid  mouth  slid  up  again,  in  the  wake 
of  the  faint,  whimsical  smile,  for  this  young  man  had  read  his 
Barrie. 

"  Sentimental  Tommy,  you  mean  —  the  chap  who  smashed 
his  own  foot  in  the  door?  Well,  I  disown  the  relationship. 
I'm  not  a  bit  sentimental." 

"  Then  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  behave  as  if  you 
weren't?  You  can't  be  a  Don  Quixote  with  a  broken  arm.  .  .  . 
Oh  .  .  .  but  it  really  is  broken,  you  know.  If  your  friends 
are  on  the  'phone  I'll  just  let  them  know  what  has  happened  to 
you  and  that  you  will  be  spending  the  night  here.  Really,  you 
see,  there's  nothing  else  at  all  to  be  done." 

The  young  man  did  seem  to  see  that.  At  any  rate,  like  a 
rational  being  he  gave  Helena  the  particulars  she  wanted.  His 
name  it  appeared  was  Sargent  —  Hilary  Sargent  (a  nice  name, 
thought  Helena)  and  he  was  staying  over  at  Haxby  Wyke  with 
some  old  friends,  a  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wyatt,  at  the  Red  House. 
Yes,  they  were  on  the  'phone  all  right.  He  had  cycled  over 
from  Haxby  Wyke  to  finish  a  little  sketch  of  Haworth  (then  he 
loved  the  Brontes!).  A  particularly  fine  sunset  had  tempted 
him  across  the  moor  to  Rattenby,  and  half-way  down  that  beast 
of  a  hill  his  brake  had  refused  to  act.  She  knew  the  rest, 
didn't  she? 

Helena  nodded,  her  mind  on  the  facts.  And  then  something 
happened  —  something  totally  unexpected,  preposterous  al- 
most. Three  musical  syllables,  uttered  in  Mr.  Sargent's 
equally  musical  voice,  flung  themselves  softly  upon  her  through 
the  quivering  blue-flecked  twilight  of  the  room. 

"Deirdre.  .  .  ." 

She  turned,  faintly  aware  that  this  young  man  should  be 
snubbed.  Every  canon  of  her  class  and  upbringing  would 
have  insisted  that  this  was  her  proper  course  —  that  the  young 
man  deserved  it.  Five  minutes  ago  he  had  never  set  eyes  upon 
her  and  he  could  not  possibly  imagine  that  Deirdre  was  her 
name.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to  be  angry  —  not  very  angry, 


SHADOW  71 

perhaps,  but  just  angry  enough  to  put  this  young  Mr.  Sargent 
quietly  back  in  his  place.  But  somehow  (and  she  realised  it 
with  a  sort  of  inward  panic)  she  wasn't  angry,  not  even  in  the 
very  least.  She  was  only  intensely  surprised.  She  stood  there 
with  her  hand  on  the  black  knob  of  the  door,  and  she  didn't 
say  anything  at  all.  Long,  conical  shadows  played  bo-peep 
with  that  whimsical  flame  from  the  fire,  and  as  she  waited  the 
new  moon  slipped  out  from  the  clouds  and  stood  looking  at 
her  through  the  unshuttered  windows.  Helena  glanced  up 
and  saw  it  —  a  thin  thread  of  silver  on  a  black  gown.  ...  It 
was  always  so  that  she  saw  it  when  this  scene  came  back  to  her 
in  the  long  afterwards.  Until  that  day  when  she  couldn't  bear 
to  think  about  it  any  more  at  all.  .  .  . 

But  the  young  moon  peeped  at  her  now  as  she  waited  —  and 
she  hadn't  put  Mr.  Sargent  in  his  place.  Mr.  Sargent  remained 
precisely  where  his  daring  had  placed  him  —  wherever  that 
might  have  been. 

"  Deirdre  ...  if  you  really  think  it's  broken,  will  you 
please  tell  Mrs.  Wyatt  it's  the  left  arm?  She'll  think  that  no 
end  important." 

It  was  extraordinary.  He  had  called  her  by  that  ridiculous 
name  again,  and  still  she  had  said  nothing.  Instead,  across  the 
gathering  darkness  she  gave  him  a  long,  slow  smile,  and  one 
lingering  look  out  of  her  blue-black  eyes.  The  fickle  flame 
and  the  thin  young  moon  combined  forces  against  her,  and  re- 
vealed both,  suddenly,  to  the  man  who  had  not  been  snubbed. 

The  door  opened  and  shut.     She  was  gone. 

Extraordinary.  That,  really,  was  the  only  word  for  it! 
Why  hadn't  she  snubbed  him?  Of  course  he  deserved  it.  She 
had  been  supremely  foolish;  worse  than  that,  supremely  undig- 
nified. She  caught  her  breath  quickly  as  the  door  closed  softly 
behind  her.  Why,  it  would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  done  the 
right  thing.  She  need  only  have  told  him  who  she  was.  .  .  . 

Outside  it  was  nearly  dark,  save  for  the  thin  shaft  of  light 
that  came  from  the  half-open  door  of  the  drawing-room  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hall.  She  could  hear  the  subdued  murmur 
of  conversation  as  her  father  and  mother  waited  there  beside 
the  fire  until  she  should  come  in  and  pour  out  tea  for  the 
first  time  in  her  own  house.  She  fancied  that  she  no  longer 
wanted  any  tea  ...  that  by  now  it  must  be  too  late. 


72  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

A  maid  crossing  the  hall  turned  up  the  light  and  Helena 
saw  that  it  still  wanted  ten  minutes  to  four.  That  extraor- 
dinary interview  had  taken  up  not  quite  five  minutes  of  time. 
Yet  it  had  seemed  to  her  like  Eternity  ...  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  to  her  before  and  nothing  could  happen  again. 
The  sudden  flood  of  light  switched  her  back  quite  painfully 
into  the  present  and  left  her  wondering  why  it  was  she  hadn't 
thought  of  turning  on  the  light  —  in  there  —  instead  of  leaving 
herself  to  the  impish  mercies  of  a  blue  flame  and  an  impudent 
moon. 

She  took  down  the  telephone  book  and  ran  her  finger  slowly 
down  the  list  of  Ws.  Wyatt  .  .  .  Dr.  John  .  .  .  and  as  she 
did  so  the  thought  struck  her  that  it  was  queer  her  father  and 
mother  should  be  sitting  there  by  the  fire  waiting  for  her  to 
come  and  pour  out  tea  from  her  new  silver  teapot  —  just  for 
all  the  world  as  though  nothing  at  all  had  happened.  Well, 
and  what  had  happened? 

The  door  swung  open  and  Jerome  Courtney's  tall  figure 
stepped  into  the  light. 

6 

Lying  very  still  in  the  firelight,  Hilary  was  conscious  not  of 
the  dull  pain  in  his  arm,  but  of  a  queer  throbbing  of  his  pulses, 
and  a  restless  desire  that  Helena  should  come  back  again  into 
the  room.  He  could  hear  her  clear  voice  on  the  telephone; 
heard  her  say  good-bye  and  guessed  that  the  receiver  had  been 
hung  up  in  position  again.  She  was  coming  back!  Curse  it, 
no!  Someone  outside  there  was  engaging  her  in  conversation 
—  somebody  male,  with  a  deep  bass  voice.  He  heard  her 
laugh  —  a  little  delicate  laugh  that  broke  across  the  slight 
murmur  of  conversation  like  the  soft  pattering  of  rain  on  dry 
leaves.  Why  didn't  she  come  back?  He  wanted  to  look  at  her 
again.  She  had  been  lovely  in  that  queer  light,  unbelievably 
calm  and  white,  like  a  big  star  in  a  black  sky.  It  was  almost 
worth  while  to  have  risked  one's  neck  down  that  crazy  hill  just 
for  the  sake  of  looking  at  her  in  that  flame-flecked  room  hung 
about  with  shadows,  and  with  the  night  coming  down  swiftly  on 
the  black  moor  beyond.  He  had  a  sudden  desire  to  paint  her  as 


SHADOW  73 

she  had  stood  there  in  the  dusk,  with  her  white  face  and  gleam- 
ing hair  silhouetted  against  the  blurred  outlines  of  the  room. 
The  look  of  her  head  was  startlingly  clear  to  him  even  now;  he 
remembered  its  delicate  poise,  the  way  in  which  the  blue  flame 
every  now  and  then  had  revealed  its  outline,  and  the  pale  aure- 
ole that  was  her  hair.  He  would  call  his  picture  Deirdre — 
Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows,  "  pale  as  the  coat  of  swans  " —  for  that 
was  how  he  had  thought  of  her  first.  He  could  imagine  her 
walking  the  hills  at  night,  rain-dripping  before  the  wind.  She 
had  suggested,  even  in  this  light,  the  stinging  downpour  and 
stiff  breeze  of  the  uplands  —  and  a  cold  bath  in  the  morning. 
He  hadn't  intended  to  call  her  Deirdre  at  all  —  it  had  just  hap- 
pened! And,  by  Jove,  how  well  she  had  taken  it! 

The  pain  in  his  arm  had  certainly  dulled;  it  was  pleasant  to 
lie  there  so  quietly,  watching  that  desultory  fire-flame  play 
hide-and-seek  with  the  shadows,  his  thoughts  revolving  round 
the  girl  whose  voice  tantalised  him  now  through  the  shut  door. 
That  long,  slow  smile  of  hers  —  and  that  lingering  wistful  look 
—  he  could  see  them  yet,  though  perhaps  she  had  not  meant 
that  he  should  see  either  at  all. 

There  came  again,  through  the  closed  door,  that  little  sound 
of  delicate  laughter,  shivering  his  idle  dreams  into  a  thousand 
insignificant  pieces.  It  was  heartless  of  her  to  laugh,  and  he 
lying  there  with  a  broken  arm  —  at  least,  she  said  it  was 
broken,  and  she  seemed  to  know.  He  was  seized  again  with  a 
restless  longing  for  her  return.  It  was  getting  dark:  the  blue 
flame  was  almost  spent;  when  she  did  come  in  he  would  not  be 
able  to  see  her.  Perhaps  the  firelight  had  been  kind  to  her. 
Perhaps  when  the  room  was  lighted  .  .  .  Oh,  curse  them,  who- 
ever they  were!  Why  didn't  they  let  her  come  back?  An- 
other voice  now  —  and  another !  Everyone  might  talk  to  her, 
it  seemed,  but  him! 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  door  opened  and  Helena  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  Hilary  turned  his  head  quickly  —  much  too 
quickly;  was  conscious  of  a  sharp,  intolerable  pain  in  his  arm, 
and  of  yet  another  sickening  lunge  of  the  ceiling  towards  him. 
Then  the  shadowy  face  in  the  doorway  faded  out  very  gently 
on  a  sea  of  blackness. 

Helena,  switching  on  the  light,  saw  that  he  had  fainted. 


74  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


He  thought,  when  presently  emerged  from  that  engulfing  sea, 
that  he  must  have  dreamed  someone  called  her  "  Mrs.  Court- 
ney "  and  someone  else,  "  Helena."  Neither  name  belonged  to 
her;  and  it  was  supremely  ridiculous  that  she  should  have  any 
right  to  the  prefix. 

Then  the  black  waters  receded  further  and  the  incongruous 
names  fell  again  on  his  ears.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  her.  She  had  taken  off  the  enveloping  coat,  and  was  stand- 
ing quite  close  to  him,  just  there  by  the  window,  talking  to  a 
tall  dark  man  in  tweeds  and  to  another  who  wore  professional 
black.  She  was  smiling  a  little,  twisting  a  ring  on  her  finger; 
and  as  he  looked  at  her  there  came  again  to  him  the  strange 
illusion  that  she  was  unusually  tall.  .  .  . 

Helena  turned,  caught  his  glance,  and  paused  in  her  con- 
versation. Without  trace  of  embarrassment  or  self-conscious- 
ness she  came  at  once  towards  him,  still  with  the  ghost  of  her 
smile  upon  her  lips. 

"Mr.  Sargent,"  she  said,  "may  I  introduce  my  husband? 
Mr.  Courtney,  Mr.  Sargent.  And  my  very  old  friend,  Dr. 
Walton,  to  whose  tender  mercies  I  am  going  to  leave  you.  I 
am  sure  that  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  painless  bone-setting, 
Dr.  Walton  will  accomplish  it." 

The  three  men  shook  hands  and  said  the  usual  things.  By 
the  time  they  were  said  Helena  had  disappeared  and  an  im- 
maculate maid  stood  on  the  threshold.  She  had  come,  she  said, 
to  show  Mr.  Sargent  to  his  room. 

They  followed  her,  a  silent  trio,  up  the  broad  oak  staircase. 

8 

Hilary  roused  himself  to  talk  as  Dr.  Walton  set  and  bandaged 
the  broken  limb  (she  had  been  right  —  it  was  broken)  and  by 
the  time  the  operation  was  completed  he  had  discovered  all 
there  was  to  know. 

"  A  remarkably  good  patient,"  Dr.  Walton  said,  as  he  took 
his  leave.  "  One  would  have  thought  I'd  scarcely  hurt  you  at 
all." 


SHADOW  75 

Hilary's  smile  had  been  enigmatic.  He  was  thinking  that 
what  the  doctor  had  said  had  hurt,  by  comparison,  so  much 
more  than  what  he  had  done.  Left  alone,  he  lay  quite  still, 
and  by  degrees  he  forgot  everything  save  that  long,  slow,  smile 
of  hers  dividing  the  dusk.  .  .  . 

But  presently  there  rose  up  quickly  and  confronted  him  a 
pale,  pitiful  ghost,  climbing  up  softly  out  of  the  past  —  the 
ghost  of  a  young  boy  who  had  cried  his  heart  out  over  a  batch 
of  brutal  newspaper-cuttings.  Icy  little  phrases  floated  out  to 
him  .  .  .  odd  little  sentences  that  pieced  an  old  story  together 
again  with  surprising  rapidity,  an  old  story  that  Hilary  had  al- 
ways hoped  he  might  one  day  forget. 

Later  on  someone  brought  in  his  dinner,  served  beautifully 
on  a  tray  of  dark  oak.  The  "  someone,"  whoever  it  was, 
propped  up  his  cushions  and  said  something  kind  that  he  didn't 
seem  properly  to  hear.  Whilst  he  ate,  that  pitiful  desolate 
ghost  stood  yet  at  his  elbow,  and  once  when  he  awoke  in  the 
night  he  saw  that  it  was  still  there.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  THREE 


DR.  WALTON  kept  his  patient  in  bed  for  the  whole  of 
the  following  day,  and  in  the  evening  Jerome  went  up 
to  spend  a  couple  of  hours  with  him,  leaving  Helena  to 
her  correspondence  down  there  in  her  mauve  drawing-room  that 
was  an  exquisite  expression  of  her  sudden  passion  for  purples 
—  the  chromatic  aspect  of  a  mood.  A  maid  came  in  and  drew 
the  soft  amethyst  curtains,  shutting  out  the  blackness  that  had 
crept  down  over  moor  and  house  alike.  The  fire  crackled 
cheerily,  the  sparks  sped  up  the  wide  chimney,  and  from  the 
cup  the  maid  had  placed  at  Helena's  side  arose  the  delicious 
appetising  smell  of  expensive,  excellently  made  coffee.  But 
from  the  room  overhead  there  filtered  through  to  her  at  inter- 
vals a  faint  tantalising  murmur  of  conversation.  She  won- 
dered what  they  were  talking  about  .  .  .  what  things  this  rather 
surprising  young  man  was  interested  in.  Every  now  and  then 
she  heard  Jerome's  laugh  —  the  good-tempered  chuckling  laugh 
of  his  that  she  was  coming  to  know  so  well.  It  became,  pres- 
ently, impossible  to  string  her  polite  sentences  together,  so  that 
the  letter-writing  had  to  be  abandoned.  When  Jerome  came 
down  he  found  her  curled  up  on  the  divan  with  a  book.  By 
the  light  of  one  small  globe  at  her  side  she  appeared  to  be 
reading. 

"  What  a  bookworm  it  is !  "  he  said,  making  room  for  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  divan. 

Helena  didn't  tell  him  that  Browning  no  more  than  her 
epistolary  efforts  had  been  successful  in  shutting  out  that  over- 
head interstitial  conversation.  But  she  shut  Browning  up  and 
dropped  him,  very  gently,  on  to  the  floor. 

Jerome  edged  a  little  further  on  to  his  precarious  seat,  and 
with  a  careless  hand  switched  the  room  into  sudden  gloom. 

"  Your  man's  nice,"  he  observed. 

"My  man?" 

76 


SHADOW  77 

"  Well,  somehow  I  associate  him  with  you.  You  took  him 
in  hand,  anyway." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"  Oh  Lord,  no.  I  can't  remember  that  we  mentioned  you. 
It  was  your  mother  who  told  me  he'd  refused  to  let  her  send 
for  the  doctor." 

"  Oh  that!  I  only  told  him  to  be  sensible.  What  have  you 
been  talking  about?  " 

"  Crowds  of  things  —  politics,  finance,  the  suffragettes,  art, 
religion.  .  .  ." 

Helena  laughed. 

**  I  thought  it  sounded  interesting,"  she  said.  "  Let's  take 
art  first.  He  paints,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

**  Quite  simple.  He  admitted  that  he'd  been  over  to  Haworth 
to  finish  a  sketch." 

"  It's  a  good  sketch  —  even  I  know  that." 

"  You've  seen  it?  " 

"  I  have.  The  artist  suggested  that  we  might  like  to  keep  it 
...  as  a  grateful  acknowledgment  for  '  all  our  kindness.'  His 
phrase,  I  assure  you." 

"And  of  course  you  accepted  it?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  but  hardly  with  such  indecent  haste." 

Again  Helena  laughed. 

"  Where  is  it?  " 

"  I  put  it  down  most  carefully  over  there  on  the  Bechstein." 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

"  Presently.     We're  too  comfortable  to  move." 

His  fingers  caught  hers  and  held  them. 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

Presently: 

"  Interest  evaporated?  " 

"  Don't  be  silly.  Anyone  would  think  there  was  a  whole 
army  of  artists  falling  over  themselves  on  our  doorstep.  I 
don't  believe  I've  ever  seen  one  before.  Tell  me.  Has  Mr. 
Sargent  got  a  real  studio  of  his  own?  " 

He  had,  Jerome  said.     In  Chelsea. 

Helena  had  heard  of  Chelsea. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

Jerome  went  on.     Mr.  Sargent,  it  appeared,  not  only  had 


78  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

a  studio  and  spent  the  days  in  painting  pictures,  but  he  also 
exhibited  them. 

"At  the  Academy?" 

"Well,  I  fancy  he  didn't  seem  awfully  bucked  about  the 
Academy.  There  were  several  other  galleries  he  appeared  to 
think  licked  the  Academy  into  a  cocked  hat.  One  of  them  hung 
a  thing  of  his  last  year  .  .  .  something  out  of  Keats,  he  said. 
I  can't  remember  what  it  was." 

"Oh  — Jerome!" 

"  Well,  you  can  ask  him  about  it  to-morrow.  By  the  way, 
the  Mrs.  Wyatt  he's  been  stopping  with  at  Haxby  Wyke  was  his 
governess.  She  married  and  came  up  here  to  live  when  he  was 
a  youngster,  so  he  told  me.  He  calls  her  Ursula." 

The  big  log  on  the  fire  slipped  with  a  little  crash  and  threw 
up  a  spray  of  blue-gold  sparks.  The  aspect  of  the  room 
changed  —  became  faintly  reminiscent.  Helena's  fingers 
twisted  restlessly  beneath  those  of  her  husband. 

"  Jerome,  can't  I  see  the  picture  now?  " 

"Presently.  .  .  ." 

"  But  it's  so  dark  in  here  and  you  don't  like  the  twilight.  .  .  ." 

"Yes  I  do  —  sometimes.     I  like  it  now." 

"  I  want  to  see  the  picture,  Jerome." 

"  The  picture  can  wait.     I'm  enjoying  the  twilight." 

"  Please,  Jerome.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  smiling. 

"What's  the  hurry?     Aren't  you  comfortable?  " 

She  watched  the  track  of  the  blue  flame  as  it  hovered  over 
his  face,  and  of  a  sudden  she  saw,  not  Jerome  at  all,  but  a 
thinner,  paler  face  altogether,  with  a  red  streak  for  a  mouth 
that  curled  up  every  now  and  then  at  the  edges,  surprising  you. 
.  .  .  She  made  another  effort  to  release  her  fingers  —  as  abor- 
tive as  the  rest.  Jerome  sat  there  still  on  the  edge  of  the  divan 
.  .  .  looking  down  at  her,  smiling,  and  with  his  fingers  round 
her  rebellious  ones. 

"  I  like  that  gold  thing  you've  got  on.  .  .  ." 

"  You've  seen  it  at  least  twice  before." 

"  Have  I?     That  doesn't  prevent  my  liking  it.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not;  but  you  should  have  admired  it  the  first 
time  I  put  it  on,  not  the  third  ....  Oh,  Jerome,  please,  I 
don't  want  to  be  kissed.  . 


SHADOW  79 


Later  in  the  evening  Jerome  rang  up  the  Red  House  across 
the  moor  and  asked  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wyatt  to  lunch  with  them  on 
the  morrow,  when  it  was  hoped  that  Mr.  Sargent  would  be  well 
enough  to  return  with  them.  The  invitation  was  accepted:  but 
it  struck  even  the  unobservant  Jerome  that  if  Mr.  Sargent  were 
pleased  about  it  he  had  a  remarkable  way  of  showing  it,  or 
rather,  of  concealing  it. 

The  next  morning,  half  an  hour  before  the  Wyatts  were  due, 
Hilary  came  down  into  the  drawing-room  and  found  Helena 
busy  again  with  her  letters.  She  looked  up  as  he  entered  and 
pushed  back  her  writing-pad,  as  though  the  letters  could  wait. 

"  Oh  no,  finish  them  please,"  he  said,  and  picking  up  the 
Confessions  of  a  Fool  began  to  read. 

Helena  flushed  a  little  as  she  bent  again  over  her  letters,  re- 
membering that  moment  of  yesterday.  An  impression  of 
cheapness  stole  over  her  and  a  little  smarting  sense  of  shame. 
This  young  man  was  showing  her  what  she  should  have  done 
then.  Very  politely,  but  quite  unmistakably,  he  was  putting 
her  back  in  her  place  —  in  the  place  from  which  she  had 
stepped  when,  a  young  married  woman,  she  had  allowed  him, 
unchecked,  to  call  her  by  a  ridiculous  name.  And  having  put 
her  there  he  was  keeping  her  there  —  more  with  Strindberg's 
aid,  he  was  building  a  remarkably  stout  high  wall  between 
them.  Soon  she  wouldn't  even  be  able  to  see  over  the  top. 
Her  head  bent  lower. 

That  was  Hilary's  opportunity.  Basely  deserting  his  ally  he 
looked  up  and  with  penetrative  critical  eyes  began  to  study  the 
line  of  profile  outlined  for  him  against  that  background  of 
amethyst.  It  had,  he  saw,  just  that  touch  of  imperfection 
which  lends  fascination,  the  pleasurable  tantalising  suggestion 
of  shortcoming  which  makes  you  look  a  second  time  to  discover 
wherein  exactly  it  lies.  Hilary  decided  this  morning  that  the 
fault  —  only  that  was  not  the  word  —  lay  in  the  strange  little 
tilt  at  the  end  of  the  nose  that  seemed  to  have  begun  with  the 
intention  of  running  perfectly  straight  and  at  the  last  moment 
had  whimsically  altered  its  mind.  Hilary  half  suspected  that 
at  times  that  infinitesimal  upward  inclination  was  not  there  at 
all  —  that  it  was  all  a  question  of  mood.  There  was,  this 


80  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

morning,  a  fine,  quick-moving  colour  in  her  cheeks.  He  could 
see  it  ebbing  and  flowing  beneath  the  white  skin  —  like  wine 
seen  through  an  opalescent  glass.  So,  he  thought,  might  Deir- 
dre  have  looked  when  the  hot  eyes  of  Connachar  devoured  her, 
or  when,  unseeing,  Naois,  with  his  brothers,  passed  her  on  the 
hillside.  .  .  . 

Presently  a  thin  unexpected  shaft  of  sunlight  came  bursting 
triumphantly  through  the  window  where  Helena  bent  still  over 
her  letters.  If  it  surprised  her  she  did  not  look  up  and  the  dar- 
ing sunbeam  hovered  lightly  to  and  fro  about  her,  making  a 
little  dancing  point  of  light  on  the  nape  of  her  bended  neck  and 
entangling  itself  ridiculously  in  the  maze  of  her  hair.  In  that 
pale  wintry  gleam  her  head  had  a  burnished  look.  The  loosely 
braided  coils  of  hair,  close  to  but  not  over  her  ears,  gave  to 
the  profile  a  certain  balance  and  poise.  Hilary  wondered  what 
colour  her  hair  was  when  you  saw  it  in  the  shadow.  At  this 
moment  she  reminded  him  of  an  October  morning  —  russet 
and  gold  —  of  dying  bracken  in  sunlight.  There  was  warmth 
and  colour  and  feeling  about  her:  it  was  not,  just  now,  of  a 
white  ghost  on  the  hillside  that  you  thought  when  you  looked 
at  her. 

And  Helena  went  on  writing,  holding  her  pen  in  the  light 
friendly  manner  of  the  born  caligraphist.  Watching  her 
Hilary  had  a  sudden  idea  that  she  was  writing  mechanically  a 
formula  she  had  used  many  times  already  —  the  pretty  gracious 
note  of  the  bride  of  six  weeks  (Dr.  Walton  had  given  him  that 
piece  of  information).  She  was  thanking  numerous  friends 
and  relatives  for  presents  and  congratulations,  using,  probably, 
the  familiar  first  person  plural,  the  intimate  "  we."  Some- 
where far  back  in  his  brain  a  pulse  was  beating  madly.  Fate 
had  smiled  at  him  once  —  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  —  and 
then  had  slammed  a  heavy  door  in  his  face,  cutting  the  smile  in 
twain.  He  felt  suddenly  tricked  and  impotent  —  realised,  for 
one  appalling  instant,  that  fate  had  him  already  gagged  and 
bound. 

In  Helena's  mauve  drawing-room  there  was  no  clock.  Ut- 
terly noiseless,  her  pen  moved  sViftly  over  the  paper.  You 
could  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  And  all  the  time,  with  that  curi- 
ous little  air  of  stealth,  Hilary  sat  there  watching.  It  made 


SHADOW  81 

him  supremely  happy  just  to  sit  there  like  that  looking  at  her. 
He  hoped  she  wouldn't  look  round.  The  wall  was  down  be- 
tween them  for  the  moment,  but  he  held  a  page  of  his  book 
very  carefully  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  ready  to  turn  it 
at  a  moment's  notice  if  she  moved  in  his  direction.  And  with 
the  turning  of  the  page  up  would  go  the  wall  again.  .  .  . 

Helena  did  not  look  round,  but  presently  she  wrote  her  last 
word,  and  as  she  put  down  her  pen  Hilary  ostentatiously  turned 
his  page,  as  though  completely  unaware  of  the  vagaries  of  a 
stray  sunbeam  on  blue  and  gold,  or  of  the  decisive  rattle  of  a 
malachite  pen  on  a  bronze  tray.  You  might  have  supposed  that 
for  him  Strindberg  had  blotted  out  the  universe  —  gold-blue 
figure  and  all. 

Slipping  her  letter  into  its  envelope  Helena  turned  her  head 
and  looked  at  him.  She  was  ready  to  swear  that  he  wasn't 
reading  at  all.  .  .  . 

"  Have  you  read  much  Strindberg?  "  she  asked. 

For  a  very  little  while  after  that  it  was  Strindberg  they  talked 
about.  Helena  detested  Strindberg  and  the  things  he  wrote  — 
as  she  detested  all  the  people  who  divided  the  world  into  male 
and  female  and  chalked  a  thick  line  between  the  divisions. 
And,  though  Hilary  seemed  to  agree  with  her,  it  was  not  long 
before  he  dismissed  Strindberg  as  a  false  ally.  He  had  drawn 
fire.  Helena  sat  very  still,  her  eyes  fixed  meditatively  on  the 
garden  beyond.  She  had  a  remarkable  capacity  for  stillness. 
It  spoke  of  strength  and  reserves  of  strength.  It  came  to  Hilary 
that  there  was  about  her  no  undue  emphasis  of  womanhood. 
Her  eyes  —  blue,  not  black,  as  he  saw  to-day  —  were  clear  and 
frank  as  a  child's.  There  was  in  her  no  trace  of  coquetry;  she 
appeared  to  have  no  feminine  tricks.  Sex,  in  Helena,  was  a 
delicate  suggestion  rather  than  a  definite  statement,  and  it  was 
that  which  set  her  apart  —  which  differentiated  her  from  all 
those  other  women  he  had  known,  who  had  carried  their  wom- 
anhood like  a  flaming  sword  in  front  of  them. 

When  next  she  spoke  it  was  not  of  Strindberg. 

"Mr.  Sargent.  Are  you  sure  you  really  want  us  to  have 
your  sketch  of  Haworth?  " 

Her  glance  shifted  from  the  garden.  It  made,  as  it  passed 
him,  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  coming  to  rest  on  the  Bech- 


82  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

stein  grand  where,  wistful  and  tender,  the  sketch  made  a  lu- 
minous patch  of  delicate  colour.  Against  that  Ethiopic  back- 
ground it  attracted  the  eye  as  a  jewel  the  sun. 

Hilary's  eyes  followed  Helena's. 

"  If  you  will  accept  it,  yes,"  he  said. 

"  But  how  can  you  bear  to  part  with  it?  "  She  walked 
across  to  the  piano  and  stood  there  looking  down  at  the  water- 
colour.  She  was  quite  sincere:  she  did  wonder  how,  having 
painted  a  thing  like  that,  he  could,  quite  calmly,  propose  to 
give  it  away.  Standing  there  in  the  centre  of  Helena's  mauve 
drawing-room  it  struck  a  new  and  arresting  note,  which  Je- 
rome's heavy  oils  of  dead  and  gone  Courtneys  were  powerless 
to  smother.  It  brought  with  it  a  wonderful,  not  quite  canny, 
sense  of  atmosphere.  You  did  not  need  to  know  anything  at 
all  about  art  or  the  criteria  of  art  to  know  that:  it  gripped  you 
at  once  by  the  throat.  This  little  sketch  lived  because  the 
artist  had  not  only  seen,  he  had  felt.  You  were  immediately 
conscious  of  that,  even  if  you  didn't  know  Haworth  and  had  no 
feeling  for  the  Brontes.  The  delicate  glow  in  the  west,  the 
pale  moon  straggling  wanly  up  the  sky  and  the  faint  silver- 
grey  mist  hovering  like  a  wraith  over  the  naked  village  struck 
for  Helena  at  once  a  definite  note  of  tragedy.  Only  a  lover 
of  the  Brontes,  she  felt,  could  have  got  quite  that  note  in  quite 
that  way.  The  little  sketch,  like  Haworth  itself,  was  saturated 
with  the  Brontes  and  their  drama.  Even  in  that  comfortable 
mauve  drawing-room  it  was  tragedy,  palpitating  and  passion- 
ate, that  looked  out  at  you  from  the  pictured  scene  of  it.  It 
looked  out  now  at  Helena. 

"  But  I  feel  we  ought  not  to  take  it  ...  that  some  day  you 
may  be  sorry  you  gave  it  away." 

Hilary  was  not  looking  at  his  drawing.  His  eyes  had  been 
on  Helena's  burnished  head,  bending,  as  if  in  humility,  before 
the  work  of  his  hands.  It  was  her  head  which  fascinated  him 
—  that  and  the  regal  way  she  carried  it.  He  got  up  and  moved 
to  her  side.  They  stood  there  together,  their  shoulders  almost 
touching,  and  for  a  little  neither  spoke.  It  was  strange,  Helena 
used  afterwards  to  think,  that  it  should  have  been  at  tragedy 
they  had  looked,  first,  together.  .  .  . 

'  No,"  said  Hilary  presently,  "  I  think  I  should  like  you  to 
have  it.     If  you  don't,  anything  may  happen  to  it.     It  may  even 


SHADOW  83 

get  into  the  hands  of  someone  who  cares  nothing  at  all  about 
the  Brontes.  There  are  such  people,  you  know." 

Helena  did  know.  She  smiled,  a  little  ruefully,  and  Hilary 
wondered  why  he  hadn't  noticed  before  that  in  her  smile  there 
was  just  a  hint  of  obliquity  —  it  surprised  you  like  that  sudden, 
unreasonable,  variable  tilt  of  her  nose.  It  gave  you  yet  an- 
other reason  for  looking  a  second  time  at  her;  you  wanted  to 
think  of  something  else  to  say  which  might  make  her  smile 
again. 

Side  by  side  they  moved  slowly  round  the  room,  talking  of 
the  dead  and  gone  Courtneys  in  their  dull  frames,  of  the  men 
who  had  painted  them,  and  of  the  position  that  was  to  be  given 
to  the  water-colour.  Yet  all  the  time  Helena  was  wondering 
why  it  should  seem  to  her  that  this  very  clever  young  man 
(that  was  how  she  thought  of  him  now)  did  not  really  want  to 
talk  to  her  —  not,  at  least,  about  anything  that  mattered,  about 
his  pictures,  about  books  or  ideas.  He  bred  in  her  this  morn- 
ing a  surprising  sense  of  self-consciousness,  an  odd  speculative 
tendency  that  she  found  perplexing  until  there  rushed  upon  her 
again  a  recollection  of  those  five  baffling  minutes  of  twilight. 
She  could  scarcely  bear,  now,  to  think  of  them,  and  yet  they 
were  making  for  theni  this  morning  —  or  so  it  seemed  to  Helena 

—  a  sort  of  secret  pact.     Already  there  was  something  which 
they  shared  between  them  .  .  .  something  of  which  no  one 
knew  at  all  save  only  themselves. 

Just  a  common  flirtation!  That  was  what  Gertrude  and 
Lucy  would  have  said  of  it,  she  knew.  And  yet  it  hadn't 
seemed  —  it  didn't  seem  now  —  in  the  very  least  common  or 
vulgar,  and  Helena  had  certainly  not  meant  to  flirt.  She  had 
never  flirted  in  her  life:  that  was  one  of  the  "  tricks  "  (feminine 
or  not,  as  you  like)  which  the  Fates  had  denied  her.  Those 
baffling  minutes  were  not  to  be  explained  as  easily  as  all  that: 
if  there  was  any  explanation  at  all  you  must  dig  deeply  to  come 
at  it.  Helena,  as  yet,  did  not  dare  disturb  the  soil.  She  was 
afraid  of  what  she  might  see.  The  thing  —  whatever  it  was  — 
had  just  happened,  through  no  conscious  v6lition  of  her  own. 
She  hadn't  known,  hadn't  realised,  till  now,  that  it  was  wrong 

—  something  she  ought  to  have  tried  strenuously  to  have  pre- 
vented from  happening  at  all.  .  .  . 

Yet  here  she  was  this  morning  beset  by  a  sense  of  mingled 


84  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

shame  and  fate.  She  felt  cheapened  and  yet  absolved.  What- 
ever had  happened  —  and  perhaps  it  was  very  little,  after  all  — 
had  happened  not  because  of  but  in  spite  of  herself.  But  she 
wanted,  suddenly,  to  know  what  he  thought:  wanted  to  know 
whether  he,  too,  held  her  cheapened,  whether  with  Gertrude 
and  Lucy  he  could  think  her  capable  of  "  making  eyes  "  across 
a  half-dark  room.  A  sudden  spurt  of  courage  ran  through  her, 
like  the  zigzag  of  lightning  across  a  stormy  sky.  Somehow  — 
and  at  once  —  she  had  to  find  out,  had  to  know,  for  certain, 
what  he  thought  of  her.  .  .  . 

She  turned  her  head  and  their  eyes  met.  Frankly  and  freely, 
uncurtained  by  the  blue  of  the  dusk,  for  the  first  time  they 
looked  at  each  other. 

In  those  few  seconds  there  came  to  them  both,  perhaps,  a 
brief,  shuddering  vision  of  things  definitive,  calamitous.  For 
that  one  fraction  of  time  the  wall  Hilary  had  been  so  carefully 
erecting  was  down  completely  between  them.  But  what  they 
saw  they  understood,  as  yet,  scarcely  at  all. 

Their  gaze  dropped  asunder.  But  now,  at  least,  Helena 
knew.  Whatever  it  was  he  thought  of  her  it  was  not  that  sordid 
thing  she  had  feared.  He  too  had  absolved  her.  So  much  that 
one  steady  look  had  shown  her. 

What  it  had  not  shown  her,  what  to-day  she  could  not  see, 
was  the  end.  For  this  morning  there  was  no  future  at  all  — 
there  was  only  this  wonderful  palpitating  minute  that  was  the 
Present.  She  heard,  as  yet,  no  paean  of  dawn  cleaving  the 
darkness;  she  heard  nothing  whatever  save  the  beating  of  her 
own  insurgent  heart. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


ABOUT  the  lunch  that  followed  Helena  remembered  noth- 
ing at  all  save  that  Ursula  and  Dr.  Wyatt  talked  a  good 
deal  of  the  cripple  children  they  domiciled  over  at  the 
Red  House  at  Haxby  Wyke  (which  at  any  other  time  Helena 
might  have  found  of  interest  but  which  to-day  didn't  matter), 
and  that  every  time  Hilary  looked  at  her  he  glanced  away  again 
hurriedly.  Once,  listening  to  something  Ursula  was  saying  to 
Jerome,  it  struck  her  as  ridiculous  that  Ursula  Wyatt  should 
have  no  children  of  her  own  while  only  with  difficulty  was  Lucy 
to  be  persuaded  from  having  a  baby  every  year.  For  Ursula's 
energy  and  her  manner  were  tremendously,  vitally,  maternal: 
you  could  not  imagine  that  she  would  ever  be  appalled  or  dis- 
mayed by  the  personality  of  a  child.  She  existed  as  a  perpet- 
ual contradiction  of  that  terribly  scientific  statement  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  "  born  mother." 

To  that  one  coherent  thought  was  added,  presently,  another 
—  the  thought  that,  for  all  the  meal  moved  with  the  stately 
grace  of  a  dignified  ritual,  they  did  seem  rather  to  have  over- 
done it.  Helena  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  the  dishes  as  they 
appeared;  once,  when  Hilary  passed  a  course,  she  flushed  and, 
a  little  awkwardly,  passed  it  too.  Angela  Richardson-Court- 
ney in  that  old  turreted  house  of  hers  might  have  lunches  like 
this  is  she  chose  —  just  as  an  earl  may  drink  his  tea  out  of  his 
saucer  if  he  likes  because  no  one  will  think  he  does  it  because 
he  doesn't  know  any  better.  But  in  this  brand-new  house,  des- 
titute of  the  Courtney  tradition  (or  of  any  tradition  at  all,  for 
that  matter),  this  lunch  did  seem  to  hint  at  vulgarity.  Rather 
as  if,  Helena  thought,  they  were  spelling  it  with  a  capital  "  L." 
For  the  rest,  all  this  food  and  drink  and  this  sparkling  ever- 
rolling  ball  of  conversation,  was  only  something  which  got 
most  tremendously  in  the  way  of  the  things  she  was  trying  to 

85 


86  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

think  out.  For  it  seemed  to-day  as  if  for  that  "  something  big  " 
she  had  not  waited  long  enough  —  or  that  the  "  something  " 
had  not  been  so  very  big,  after  all.  Here  at  the  end  of  six 
weeks  that  was  how  she  thought  of  her  marriage  —  as  a  not 
very  big  thing,  after  all.  Perhaps  for  Jerome  it  was  different. 
Jerome  had  so  much  else :  it  seemed  as  if  she  herself  had  merely 
got  wedged  into  a  prominent  place  among  other  things  equally 
necessary  to  him  ...  his  career  and  his  business  interests. 
Jerome  had  made  a  sandwich  of  love.  .  .  . 

Five  minutes  in  a  flame-flecked  twilit  room,  one  brief  elo- 
quent look  across  a  Jacobean  drawing-room  and  life  —  if  it  had 
ever  been  simple  —  was  simple  no  longer.  Its  new  note  of 
complexity  was  disturbing  because  Helena  had  not  heard  it  be- 
fore, and  there  was  no  knowing  what  disharmonies  it  might  en- 
gender. It  was  like  those  wonderful  chords  in  Sibelius  — 
hideous  if  you  got  them  wrong.  Anyway,  here  she  was  again, 
waiting,  all  her  being  poised;  and  stabbed  every  now  and  then 
by  a  point  of  wonderment  as  to  how  she  had  come  to  get  into 
"  all  this."  And  "  all  this  "  at  the  moment  was  extraordinarily 
exciting  and  extraordinarily  chaotic. 

It  was  chaotic,  too,  for  Hilary,  but  (since  he  was  a  more 
practised  hand  at  the  social  virtues  than  Helena)  you  would 
never  have  guessed  it,  because  the  more  he  talked  the  less  risk 
he  ran  of  encountering  that  disturbing  crooked  smile  of  Hel- 
ena's or  of  seeing  the  colour  come  and  go  in  her  cheeks,  most 
tantalisingly.  But  when  she  spoke  her  rather  scornful  young 
voice  reached  him  as  from  a  distance,  giving  to  him,  none  the 
less,  a  curiously  definite  sense  of  unity,  creating  between  them 
bonds  of  perfect  harmony.  And  once,  when  (for  all  his  ef- 
forts) their  eyes  met,  it  was  as  if  across  that  stately  dilatory 
luncheon  they  had  extended  sudden  hands  of  complete  and 
sympathetic  understanding;  as  if,  to  Hilary,  there  had  been 
vouchsafed  a  manifest  ratification  of  that  slow,  lingering  smile 
of  hers.  . 


Later,  over  their  coffee,  they  arranged  a  return  visit  to  the 
Red  House  for  the  Friday  of  the  following  week.  Hilary  made 
a  note  of  the  date  for  Ursula,  and  Helena  saw  that  he  made  it  in 
shorthand,  and  on  the  edge  of  his  cuff.  Their  hands  met.  as 


SHADOW  87 

they  said  good-bye:  their  eyes  scarcely  at  all.  And  no  word 
at  all  about  Friday  —  not  half  a  word,  though  that,  Helena 
thought,  was  what  she  was  going  to  live  for. 

When  they  had  gone  she  came  in  and  stood  for  a  minute 
inside  the  morning-room,  looking  across  to  the  empty  chair  by 
the  window.  Already  the  dusk  had  fallen.  The  fire  had  been 
allowed  to  go  out:  there  was  to-day  no  impish  blue  flame  to 
play  tricks  .  .  .  and  no  one  to  play  them  with.  Grey  ashes 
littered  the  green  tiles  of  the  fireplace.  The  windows  were 
wide  open  and  the  white  curtains  flapped  briskly  in  the  breeze, 
just  as  they  had  done  two  days  ago.  But  this  time  she  did  not 
rescue  them.  She  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  looking  a  little 
wistfully  at  the  cold,  empty  room,  then  with  a  slight  shiver 
she  turned  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  very  softly  after  her. 
Yet  it  was  not  of  things  past,  things  dead  and  cold,  that  she 
thought  so  much  as  of  things  present  and  to  come.  A  sense 
of  days  predestinate  was  upon  her.  .  .  . 

Jerome,  crossing  the  hall,  suggested  a  walk  across  the  moor. 
He  wanted,  she  could  see,  to  do  something  with  his  unusually 
idle  afternoon,  and  she  knew  he  had  suggested  the  thing  most 
likely  to  appeal  to  her.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  don't?  "  she  asked. 

"Tired?" 

"Yes  — just  a  little." 

That  wasn't  true.  She  wasn't  in  the  least  tired.  She  was 
only  unbearably  conscious  of  a  mutinous  desire  to  get  away 
somewhere  alone,  to  think.  .  .  . 

"  All  right,"  said  Jerome,  "  I'll  put  on  a  pipe." 

She  saw  him  vanish  into  the  little  room  he  called  his  study, 
and  as  she  went  upstairs  she  wondered  why,  for  just  one  second, 
she  should  feel  sorry  for  him. 


She  was  to  feel  that  same  little  thrill  of  pity  once  or  twice 
again,  as  very  slowly  the  next  few  days  passed  by.  Outwardly 
calm  and  still,  to  all  appearances  more  than  usually  self-pos- 
sessed and  deliberative,  she  was  yet  devoured  by  that  odd  sense 
of  excitement  that  had  surged  over  her  as  she  had  stood  gaz- 
ing at  a  badly  buckled  bicycle  beneath  the  green  porch  of  the 


88  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

door.  In  some  strange  fashion  all  ordinary  life  seemed  sus- 
pended —  caught  up  as  if  by  a  charm.  The  note  of  high 
romance  had  come  to  her  at  last,  had  left  her  a  little  breathless, 
on  tiptoe  of  expectancy.  It  transmuted  now  everything  she 
looked  on,  everything  she  thought,  every  emotion  that  swayed 
her.  Like  a  sycamore  in  the  wind  her  spirit  bent  before  it, 
under  the  resolute  compulsion  of  this  new  bewildering  sense  of 
an  overmastering,  indomitable  fate.  Her  fine  sense  of  honour, 
of  loyalty  and  respect,  went  down  before  it  like  a  sapling  in 
a  gale.  Something  deep  stirred  within  her  at  the  recollection 
of  a  pale  tense  face  in  the  murky  twilight,  at  the  memory  of  a 
musical  voice  trailing  softly  across  the  dusk  to  her.  .  .  .  She 
lived,  for  those  few  days,  a  charmed  life,  in  which  nothing 
mean  or  paltry  could  touch  her.  Romance  had  drawn  a  magic 
circle  about  her  and  within  it  she  moved  a  free  and  radiant 
being. 

Even  that  queer  little  sense  of  pity  just  came  and  was  gone  — 
an  arrow  glancing  lightly  upon  her  enchanted  armour,  and 
dropping  harmlessly.  She  was  sorry  and  she  was  tender  — 
unusually,  adorably  tender.  She  was  too  happy  to  hurt;  too 
happy  even  to  be  hurt.  Her  pity  and  her  sorrow  for  Jerome 
came  from  this  —  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  make  her  feel 
as  she  felt  now  —  disembodied,  bewitched ;  because  for  him 
nothing  profound  had  ever  stirred  within  her,  had  never  once 
raised  its  head  and  looked  in  at  the  windows  of  her  soul.  No 
emotion  she  had  ever  felt  for  him  had  left  her  like  this  —  glow- 
ing, uplifted:  she  had  retained  always  her  natural  analytical 
faculty  and  had  used  it  mercilessly,  as  a  surgeon  uses  a  knife. 
It  had  dissected,  examined,  dissected,  without  cessation:  her 
feeling  for  Jerome  was  not  feeling  at  all,  but  thought.  He 
stimulated  not  her  emotions  but  only  the  intellectual  machinery 
that  controlled  the  operations  of  that  deadly  knife.  And  now, 
for  the  present,  she  wasn't  thinking  in  the  very  least;  she  was 
giving  herself  up  completely  to  this  new  and  delectable  sensa- 
tion which  she  did  not  stay  to  analyse.  That  would  come  later. 
At  present  she  could  only  feel :  thought  drowsed  contentedly  in 
the  sun. 

To  Jerome  her  new  tenderness  and  sweetness  were  things  of 
unmitigated  delight.  They  argued,  for  him,  that  the  love  he 
craved  from  her  —  the  gift  he  wanted  most  of  life  —  would 


SHADOW  89 

one  day  shortly  be  his.  He  did  not  know  —  how  should  he?  — 
that  when  her  eyes  rested  upon  him  in  that  tender,  fugitive  way, 
she  was  thinking  of  an  impudent  moon  trailing  up  a  grey-black 
sky,  that  watched  her  as  she  flung  the  gleaming  banner  of  her 
smile  across  the  heaving  blue  of  the  dusk;  that  once  again  there 
rose  before  her,  as  it  had  done  across  the  misty  tragedy  of  the 
Bronte  sketch,  a  brief  shrouded  vision  of  the  ultimate  destiny  of 
things.  But  because  these  things  were  hidden  from  him  Je- 
rome was  happy  —  life  for  him  these  days  became  just  one  ex- 
tremely pleasant  thing  after  another,  each  definitely  tinged  with 
an  agreeable  certainty.  But  for  Helena  it  was  just  a  big  unex- 
plored world,  hung  with  a  great  orange  moon,  that  she  had 
stumbled  upon  out  of  the  mist.  It  was  so  new  and  strange  and 
unexpected  that  it  baffled  even  while  it  enticed.  .  .  . 

Was  this  love?     If  so,  it  was  love  for  the  first  time  .  .  .  Hel- 
ena had  not  known  that  anything  could  be  so  wonderful. 


The  morning  of  the  Friday  for  which  she  had  been  living 
dawned  chilly  after  a  night  of  rain,  and  Jerome  ordered  the 
closed  car  and  told  Fownes  to  drive.  (Fownes,  according  to 
Jerome,  was  the  best  man  with  a  licence  on  the  road,  which 
appeared  to  mean  that  Fownes  had  exceeded  the  speed  limit 
the  maximum  number  of  times  with  the  minimum  number  of 
convictions.  He  was  a  magnificent  person  with  an  uncanny 
facility  in  dodging  police  traps  and  a  strenuous  objection  to 
the  owner  of  a  motor-car  using  it  or  wanting  it  used  as  if  it 
were  a  steam-roller.)  The  closed  car  and  the  services  of 
Fownes  were  decided  upon  not  on  account  of  the  weather  but 
because  these  days  Jerome  liked  to  look  at  Helena  instead  of 
at  the  long,  muddy  Yorkshire  roads,  liked  to  watch  her  eyes 
darken  with  the  dreams  he  did  not  suspect,  and  her  mouth 
quiver,  when  she  smiled,  in  a  way  that  was  new  and  infinitely 
tender  and  appealing. 

She  was  very  quiet  on  the  journey  to  Haxby  Wyke;  she  sat 
looking  out  across  the  moor  as  though  she  had  never  seen  it 
before.  Jerome  wondered  if  she  remembered  that  it  was 
across  this  same  road  they  had  come  that  morning  nearly  two 
months  ago,  after  that  ceremony  in  the  Registry  Office  at  Rat- 


90  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

tenby.  He  wanted  to  ask  her,  but  that  was  precisely  the  sort  of 
thing  Jerome  could  never  bring  himself  to  say.  His  deepest 
feelings  —  where  Helena  was  concerned  —  were  almost  always 
inarticulate.  There  were  some  things  you  couldn't  say  without 
feeling  a  fool.  This  was  one  of  them.  They  sat  there  quite 
silent  as  the  great  moor  unfolded  itself  and  the  sweeping  clouds 
rolled  down  to  meet  it.  The  wind,  like  organ  music  played  on 
the  diapason  stop,  rushed  on  towards  them;  it  echoed  fiercely 
among  the  leafless  trees  above  them  and  pursued  them  with  pas- 
sionate entreaty.  Fitful  sunlight  rolled  over  the  black  aspect 
of  the  moor  as  the  pearl-grey  clouds  rolled  over  the  sky  —  a 
sad  transitory  smile  on  the  face  of  winter. 

This  county  of  hers  moved  Helena  to  deep  silences.  She 
knew  no  other  and  would  not  have  compared  it  if  she  had,  for 
it  had  a  beauty  —  wild  and  untamable  —  of  its  own,  that  had 
got  into  her  blood.  Just  to  look  at  it  was  at  times  an  ecstasy  of 
delight.  Gertrude  had  been  scornful  of  that  profundity  of  feel- 
ing Helena  had  for  the  moors.  Away  there  in  her  elegant 
Wimbledon  villa,  she  did  not  miss  them.  When  she  wanted  to 
walk  —  and  it  wasn't  very  often,  for  why  walk  when  you  had  a 
motor-car?  —  there  was  always  the  Common.  Helena  was 
grateful  to  Wimbledon  Common,  because  on  those  occasions 
when  she  stayed  with  Gertrude  it  had  somewhat  consoled  her 
for  London's  intolerable  lack  of  background.  On  the  Com- 
mon a  wind  blew  always;  it  had  soft  springy  turf,  and  in  the 
summer  and  autumn  the  heather  grew  there  in  clumps.  It  was 
true  the  Urban  District  Council  forbade  you  to  pick  it,  but  the 
main  thing  was  that  it  grew.  You  could  see  it,  walk  on  it,  lie 
down  on  it  with  a  book.  .  .  .  That  had  amused  Gertrude  — 
that  lying  down  on  Wimbledon  Common  with  a  book.  Ger- 
trude had  never  felt  the  need  to  walk  or  run  or  lie  on  a  moor. 
A  moor,  to  her,  represented  country  —  and  that  Gertrude  hated. 
Helena  had  heard  her  grumble  once  because  the  Common  cost 
money:  it  made  the  rates  so  heavy.  The  moors  you  didn't  have 
to  pay  for.  Gertrude  granted  them  that  much  superiority  over 
the  Common  at  Wimbledon.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  car  slowed  down  over  a  difficult  piece  of  road 
and  Helena  began  to  put  on  her  gloves.  Her  face  was  grave; 
but  there^was  about  her  an  ardent  eager  look  that  Jerome, 
watching,  found  irresistible.  Suddenly  he  put  his  arm  round 


SHADOW  91 

her  and  pulled  her  roughly  up  against  him.  For  a  second  she 
lay  rigid  in  his  arms,  then  her  body  relaxed  —  her  lips  parted 
as  his  met  them.  She  shut  her  eyes  as  he  kissed  her. 

Afterwards  for  just  a  second  she  wondered  whether  she  hated 
him  because  he  had  kissed  her,  or  because  he  exhaled  the  scent 
of  stale  tobacco.  She  sat  up,  straightening  her  hat.  And  pres- 
ently she  smiled  —  a  sweet  fugitive  smile  that  made  Jerome 
want  to  kiss  her  again. 

"  We're  nearly  there,"  she  said. 

Her  tone  was  an  even  level:  you  would  never  have  guessed 
the  leaping  fury  of  excitement  which  was  going  on  down  there 
beneath  all  that  calm  and  quiet.  Jerome  didn't  guess  it,  either. 
He  lit  for  himself  another  cigarette,  with  the  air  of  a  man  for 
whom  life  moves  serenely  in  pleasant  places. 

Helena  sat  a  little  forward  in  her  seat,  watching  the  red  roofs 
of  Haxby  Wyke  coming  rapidly  into  sight.  A  sudden  fleeting 
shaft  of  sunlight  lit  them  up  and  made  them  beautiful.  The 
bare  shoulder  of  Haffington  Ridge  towered  black  above  them 
and  the  white  coursing  clouds  rolled  down  to  meet  them.  Je- 
rome looked  at  his  watch  and  crowed  with  delight  because  the 
magnificent  Fownes  had  done  the  journey  in  record  time.  The 
car  stopped  and  they  stepped  out.  As  Jerome  lifted  for  her 
the  latch  of  the  gate  Helena  heard  him  congratulating  Fownes 
on  his  achievement.  She  went  on  up  the  path  to  the  house. 

"  My  dear,  how  very  charming  you  look." 

Ursula,  rustling  up  to  the  door,  drew  her  inside  and  kissed 
her.  Helena  did  look  charming.  Excitement  had  deepened 
her  colour,  her  eyes  were  bright,  and  their  blue  had  intensified 
as  it  often  did,  till  they  looked  black.  The  wind,  through  the 
open  window  of  Jerome's  car,  and  under  the  spur  of  Fownes's 
record  driving,  had  beaten  out  her  hair  in  short,  gold-brown 
tendrils  round  her  face.  There  was  a  glow  about  her — her 
skin  looked  translucent,  as  if,  this  morning,  a  warm  flame  had 
been  kindled  somewhere  just  behind  it. 

She  stood  there  beside  Ursula  as  Jerome  came  up  and  began 
to  speak  of  their  journey.  She  moved  a  little  away  from  the 
big  fire,  for  all  the  blood  in  her  body  was  rushing  to  her  face, 
and  she  was  hot. 

Ursula  was  speaking. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  .  .  .  Mr.  Sargent  asked  me  to  make  you  his 


92  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

apologies  that  he  will  not  be  here  to  meet  you.  He  went  back 
to  town  quite  early  yesterday  morning." 

As  though  you'd  thrown  a  hood  over  it  that  bright  glow  went 
out  suddenly  from  Helena's  face.  She  said  nothing. 

Jerome,  getting  out  of  his  coat,  spoke  for  them  both. 

"  That  commission  he  was  telling  me  about,  I  expect.  .  .  ." 

A  little  ghost  of  hope  showed  faintly  in  Helena's  eyes.  The 
commission  would  explain  matters  .  .  .  put  things  right.  But 
Ursula,  hideously  truthful,  did  not  allow  her  even  that  much 
comfort. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  had  heard  anything  in  regard  to  that. 
It  was,  I'm  afraid,  rather  a  caprice.  He's  like  that  .  .  .  you 
never  know.  He  comes  when  he  likes,  often  very  unexpectedly, 
and  he  goes  in  just  the  same  way." 

"  Oh  —  the  artistic  temperament !  "  Jerome  was  suitably 
understanding.  Ursula  was  very  grateful  to  him:  she  had 
really,  this  time,  been  rather  annoyed  with  Hilary,  too  annoyed 
to  make  the  usual  polite  excuses.  Even  her  threat  of  the  truth 
had  been  unavailing.  She  had  never  known  him  more  deter- 
mined. 

"  Yes  ...  he  has  rather  a  big  streak,  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  it's 
a  bit  difficult,  sometimes,  with  other  people." 

Helena  moved  towards  the  fire,  as  if  suddenly  she  had  be- 
come cold. 


The  high  wind  had  dropped.  The  moor,  as  they  rode  home, 
was  very  still.  The  outlines  of  the  surrounding  country  were 
blurred  by  a  clinging  diaphanous  mist:  you  could  not  any 
longer  see  the  black  shoulder  of  Haffington  Ridge  away  there 
over  the  top  of  the  red  roofs  of  the  village.  Night,  silent 
and  immense,  was  creeping  up  on  the  heels  of  twilight.  Long 
dark  shadows  strode,  brooding,  over  the  moor,  and  through  the 
mist  of  sapphire  a  white  moon  showed  wanly.  Already  on  the 
face  of  the  moor  there  was  the  hint  of  mystery  and  terror 
which  comes  with  the  dark. 

Helena  sat  very  still.  She  was  tired:  tired  to  death.  In 
mind  and  body  she  was  suffering  a  hideous  reaction  from  that 
unreal,  impossible,  immediate  past.  No  pulse  of  excitement 
beat  in  her  now;  the  spring  had  been  wound  too  tight,  had 


SHADOW  93 

snapped.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  with  its  gorgeous  feather, 
and  it  rested  now  on  her  lap,  her  hands  crossed  idly  beneath  it. 
Her  face,  as  she  leant  back  in  her  corner,  was  arrestingly  white. 
The  night  air  came  in  at  the  window,  and  with  a  fierce  gesture 
swept  her  hair  back  from  her  white  forehead.  Every  now  and 
then  it  blew  across  her  face  and  into  her  eyes  but  she  did  not 
raise  her  hand  to  brush  it  away.  She  looked  as  though  she 
were  made  of  stone  —  white  stone,  and  terribly  cold.  But 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  very  soft  and  gentle,  her  manner 
inexpressibly  tender.  Jerome,  adoring  these  things,  failed  en- 
tirely to  catch  the  new  note  —  slight  but  unmistakable  —  which 
had  crept  into  them.  Already,  if  Jerome  had  but  eyes  to  see, 
there  was  in  her  attitude  a  hint  of  mingled  pity  and  remorse  — 
remorse  because  of  herself,  and  pity  for  him  —  because,  in 
thought  at  least,  she  had  so  soon  and  so  easily  betrayed  him. 

Like  snow  on  the  face  of  the  desert  her  world  of  enchantment 
had  vanished  suddenly  and  utterly:  that  white  ghost  hung  aloft 
in  the  mist  was  all  that  was  left  now  of  its  pendent  orange 
moon.  Motionless,  she  sat  there  staring  at  it,  until  presently 
the  sapphire  deepened  and  shut  even  that  out. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


AFTER  a  week  of  brooding  Helena  Courtney  faced  the 
truth  about  that  broken  illusion  of  hers  —  realised  with 
a  sort  of  sick  desperation  that  it  was  one  of  the  things 
which  had  speedily  to  be  forgotten,  or  if  that  were  impossible, 
that  she  must  cease  to  remember  that  she  had  not  forgotten. 
Her  dream  and  her  awakening  were  thus  far  sacred  —  that  no 
one  knew  of  them  but  herself. 

Jerome,  manlike,  attributed  her  moods  and  her  silences  to 
the  fact  that  she  had  no  child.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  look 
deeper,  or  to  imagine  there  might  be  anything  deeper;  he  had 
forgotten,  if  indeed  he  had  ever  known,  that  he  had  married  a 
clever  woman.  It  wasn't  cleverness  he  looked  for  primarily 
in  a  woman  —  certainly  not  in  the  woman  he  had  made  his 
wife.  Of  that  one  bitter-sweet  week  of  dreaming  he  knew 
nothing;  nor  of  the  pale  sanctity  with  which  for  evermore  it 
must  tinge  life  for  Helena,  He  did  not  guess  that  there  were 
times  even  now  when  a  poignant  memory  of  that  episode  floated 
down  to  her,  redolent  of  rue  and  rosemary  —  of  all  that  you 
lay  tenderly  across  the  sweet  things  of  life  that  have  died.  It 
seemed  sometimes  as  if  Love,  though  now  he  shrouded  his  face, 
had  not  done  with  her  yet  —  that  still  he  held  for  her  wonderful 
things  in  store.  She  had  a  wild,  insane  vision,  pitifully  brief, 
of  love  that  made  the  crooked  paths  straight,  that  demanded 
nothing,  that  understood;  and  of  a  companionship  that  com- 
pleted life,  that  was  in  itself  a  recognition  of  her  full  human 
worth.  For  Helena  still  believed  —  rather  arrogantly,  perhaps 
—  in  love.  That  she  had  missed  it  proved  nothing.  To  the 
other  women  who  came  and  sat  in  her  big  mauve  drawing- 
room  she  was  at  all  times  an  enigma.  They  knew  no  more 
of  her  than  she  chose  to  reveal  —  and  that  was  not  much. 
But  they  served  to  Helena  as  a  whetting-stone  against  which  she 

94 


SHADOW  95 

sharpened  continually  that  natural  analytical  faculty  of  hers, 
resolving  those  "  first  Wednesdays  "  into  a  perpetual  effort  to 
get  at  their  souls,  to  tear  down  the  conventional  mask  with 
which  they  had  grown  accustomed  to  hide  their  real  thoughts 
and  emotions.  They  let  her  see  sometimes  that  in  not  having 
a  child  she  had  missed  something,  and  she  grew  occasionally 
impatient  with  this  insistence,  male  and  female  (or  was  it  only 
female  because  it  was  in  the  first  place  male?)  upon  the 
strength  and  force  of  the  maternal  sense  in  women.  It  was  a 
virtue  which,  if  they  had  not,  they  all  hastened  to  assume. 
Men  liked  women  to  like  children,  so  when  women  didn't  they 
pretended  they  did.  "  You  have  to  have  children,  my  dear," 
they  said  to  her,  "  if  you  want  to  keep  your  husband's  affec- 
tion! " 

Insensibly  a  sort  of  dull  resentment  grew  up  within  Helena 
Courtney.     She  had  never  had  a  chance :  had  never  stood  alone 
and  faced  life,  braced  for  battle.     She  had  always  been  depen- 
dent upon  somebody  else  —  to  put  it  truthfully,  upon  some 
man.     And  nothing,  somehow,  made  amends  for  that.     Look- 
ing back  she  saw  that  there  had  never  really  been  anything 
else  at  all  on  her  horizon  save  marriage.     That  she  could  have 
done  other  things  didn't  matter.     "  Oh,  you're  a  girl,  you'll  get 
married."     It  was  just  so  her  mother  and  father  between  them 
had  disposed  of  her  "  career,"  and  her  lack  of  it,  she  saw  now, 
had  been  Jerome's  opportunity.     She  was  suddenly  aware  that 
she  would  never  have  married  him  had  she  been  free,  with  a 
profession  in  her  hands  that  could  earn  for  her  independence 
and  a  livelihood.     Some  women  married  for  love  —  and  that, 
perhaps,  was  different.     But  she  hadn't.     Respect  and  liking 
were  not  enough.     She  was  sure  at  least  of  that.     So  much  that 
one  rapturous  incident  had  taught  her.     Its  recollection  these 
days  complicated  the  issue.     For,  if  once  you  had  felt  like  that, 
you  didn't  easily  take  second  best.     And  that,  she  was  coming  to 
believe,  was  what  most  women  did.     They  liked  the  things  they 
were  supposed  to  like.     They  were  so  ill-trained  they  probably 
wouldn't  have  known,  left  to  themselves,  what  they  really  did 
want.     They  followed,  the  great  bulk  of  them,  the  line  of 
least  resistance. 

If  this   theory  which   ruled  the  world   were  true,   Helena 
decided  that  she  ought  now  to  be  completely  obsessed  with  the 


96  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

idea  of  thwarted  motherhood.  And  she  wasn't.  The  maternal 
instinct,  if  in  her  it  existed  at  all,  slept  still.  What,  at  this 
time,  she  wanted  above  all  things  else  was  to  be  regarded 
primarily  as  a  human  being  —  as  a  creature  possessing  an  in- 
dividuality of  her  own,  as  undeniable  as  that  of  a  man  — 
utterly  apart  from  that  of  husband  or  child.  It  was  Jerome's 
implied  refusal  to  recognise  this  which  irked  her  continually. 
He  thought  of  her  just  as  everyone  else  had  always  done,  simply 
and  solely  as  a  woman.  She  didn't  exist,  except  as  a  wife  and 
potential  mother,  and  it  seemed  to  Helena  that  there  was  rather 
more  of  her,  somehow,  than  that.  It  was  a  conviction  which 
rose  steadily  to  an  intense  overwhelming  passion  of  belief.  .  .  . 


What  exactly  it  was  that  had  induced  her  one  day  to  look  at 
the  advertisement  columns  of  the  Post  or  what  had  impelled  her 
to  answer  Emanuel  Harvey's  shorthand  announcement  she  did 
not  know.  Caprice,  impulse,  it  might  well  have  been  either, 
but  more  than  all  else,  the  art  of  writing  shorthand  according 
to  Pitman  had  suddenly  presented  itself  as  just  one  more  thing 
to  do  —  an  opportunity  for  study  and  concentration,  a  subject 
with  which  (  hideous  phrase!)  to  "kill  time."  She  began  in 
much  the  same  spirit  in  which  she  had  begun  of  late  to  practice 
Chopin  and  Beethoven,  because  it  required  effort  —  because  it 
didn't,  on  the  face  of  it,  look  easy.  She  had  discovered  that 
the  thing  which  you  did  too  easily  didn't  help.  What  she 
wanted  just  then  was  to  drudge  with  her  brain,  as  she  had 
drudged  with  her  fingers  on  the  white  keys  of  her  Bech- 
stein.  .  .  . 

Emanuel  Harvey's  fees,  as  it  happened,  were  not  high,  and 
had  been  paid  quite  easily  out  of  her  very  generous  dress  al- 
lowance. And  though  she  did  not  take  Jerome  into  her  con- 
fidence, at  least,  there,  at  the  first,  she  had  no  ulterior  motive 
in  mind.  Perhaps  she  knew  that  Jerome  would  have  been 
amused.  That  was  another  queer  thing  —  they  laughed,  nearly 
always,  she  and  Jerome,  at  different  things.  The  occurrence 
that  was  tragic  to  Helena  was  not  infrequently  comic  to  Jerome, 
and  when  she  didn't  laugh  he  was  apt  to  say,  "  Where's  your 
sense  of  humour,  my  dear?  "  It  was  extraordinary  how  bit- 


SHADOW  97 

terly  she  could  resent  that  phrase!  There  were  things  in  life 
at  which  you  simply  dare  not  laugh.  And  men  said  "  Where's 
your  sense  of  humour?  "  or  "  Do  have  a  sense  of  proportion." 
Hateful  phrase  that  Helena  came  to  loathe! 

It  was  later,  when  she  went  down  to  Wimbledon  to  stay  with 
Gertrude  and  Edgar,  that  the  ulterior  motive  crept  up  and 
looked  at  her  out  of  shy,  glad  eyes.  ...  It  happened  that 
Edgar  one  evening  had  booked  seats  at  a  theatre  where,  amongst 
other  things,  they  played  Barrie's  Twelve  Pound  Look,  and  this 
little  play  she  had  not  known  before  gripped  hold  of  her, 
helped  her  to  discern  clearly  that,  to  be  free  and  independent, 
you  must  have  money  —  enough  money  to  keep  you.  If  you 
didn't  happen  to  possess  it  you  had  to  earn  it,  in  some  such  way 
as  the  girl  in  the  play  earned  it  —  if  you  couldn't  think  of  a 
better. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Helena  felt  as  that  spiteful  old 
woman,  her  grandmother,  had  intended  her  to  feel  when  she 
cut  her  out  of  her  will.  The  money  now  would  have  been  so 
useful.  The  thought  went  through  Helena's  mind  that  if 
grandmamma  Burke  only  knew  what  she  was  thinking  she 
would  surely  turn  in  her  grave  for  joy. 

When  she  got  back  to  Yorkshire  she  began  to  save  until  she 
had  just  fifty  pounds  locked  away  in  a  drawer.  There  were 
times  when  she  felt  like  a  miser.  Other  times,  too,  when  she 
wondered  if,  ever,  she  would  have  the  courage  to  run 
away.  .  .  . 

3 

But  it  never  came  to  that  because,  suddenly,  Opportunity 
stood  on  her  doorstep,  bowing  her  out.  .  .  .  That  was  how  she 
put  it  to  herself:  what  really  happened  was  that  business  sud- 
denly called  Jerome  away  to  New  York  and  that  Helena  had 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay  behind.  Jerome  had  assumed,  of 
course,  that  she  would  accompany  him,  because,  in  his  simple 
philosophy,  wives  did.  Besides,  he  thought  the  idea  of  travel 
would  have  appealed  to  her.  It  might  have  done,  of  course, 
but  for  these  other  ideas  crowding  it  out. 

It  took  her  two  whole  days  in  which  to  work  up  her  courage, 
in  which  to  clothe  the  scheme  she  had  in  mind  decently  in 
words;  and  when  she  had  done  her  best  with  it,  it  remained 


98  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

still  most  hideously  and  indecently  naked.     Nevertheless,  on 
that  third  morning  she  had  managed  to  get  it  out. 

It  happened,  of  course,  that  Jerome  was  late  that  morning 
for  breakfast,  so  that  instead  of  hurling  her  bomb  and  getting 
it  over,  she  had  sat  behind  her  silver  coffee-pot  and  hoped 
things  wouldn't  get  cold  —  her  courage  among  them.  (That 
was  her  business  in  life  —  seeing  that  things  didn't  get  cold.) 

Long  afterwards  she  remembered  that  last  morning  in  Sep- 
tember, and  the  bright  sunshine  and  sting  in  the  air  that  had 
come  with  it.  In  almost  equal  measure  they  had  filtered  into 
Helena  through  the  flung-back  window.  The  room  smelled  of 
autumn  —  the  pungent  herbaceous  perfume  of  chrysanthe- 
mums and  of  all  the  other  flowers  that  herald  the  approach 
of  winter.  From  where  she  sat  Helena  could  see  the  quiet 
leaf-strewn  garden,  beyond  it  the  purple  moor,  and  beyond  that 
again  the  morning  mist  on  Haffington  Ridge.  Against  the  blue 
of  the  sky  the  trees,  tall  and  motionless,  showed  faint  russet 
and  gold.  Above  them  the  white  clouds  drifted  and  drifted. 
...  It  was  so  still  you  could  hear  the  coloured  leaves  dropping 
among  their  already-fallen  fellows,  or  a  horse-chestnut  hurtling 
headlong  to  the  ground.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  door  had  opened  and  Jerome  appeared. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her,  as  he  had  kissed  her  regu- 
larly every  morning  of  the  past  eleven  months.  "  Your  good 
habits  seem  to  react  on  me."  Her  "  good  habit "  of  early 
rising,  he  meant,  remembering  that  vague  sense  he  had  had 
of  her  two  hours  ago  moving  softly  about  their  common  room. 
Jerome  did  not  rise  early.  He  liked  his  world  not  only  gar- 
nished and  swept  before  his  descent  upon  it  but  thoroughly 
aired  as  well. 

Afterwards,  she  remembered  how  he  looked  as  he  lifted 
the  cover  and  inspected  the  bacon.  And,  too,  she  remem- 
bered what  he  had  said,  though  it  was  nothing  that  mattered. 
"  Been  out?  " 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  Elmtondale." 

"  Fresh,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  It  was,  rather.  I  hope  nothing's  cold  "  (a  variation,  this, 
on  the  usual  phrase,  "  I'm  afraid  the  bacon  isn't  very  hot.") 
She  poured  out  coffee,  punctiliously  dropping  three  lumps  of 
sugar  into  Jerome's  cup  because  Jerome  always  knew  if  you 


SHADOW  99 

only  put  two.  (Another  of  her  "  missions  "  in  life  —  remem- 
bering how  many  lumps  of  sugar  Jerome  liked  in  his  coffee, 
and  that  he  took  none  in  his  tea!)  He  tossed  over  now  a  dull 
post,  served  out  the  excellently  grilled  bacon,  hunched  up  his 
shoulders  at  the  wide-flung  window,  and  the  meal  began. 

Nothing  was  cold,  it  seemed,  but  Helena's  courage  —  that 
had  coagulated.  It  lay  like  a  solid  thing  there  in  the  pit  of 
her  stomach  and  spoiled  her  appetite.  A  century  seemed  to 
pass  before  she  heard  herself  say: 

"  Jerome  ...  do  you  mind  very  much  ...  if  I  don't  come 
to  America?  " 

She  saw,  before  the  words  were  out,  that  he  had  misunder- 
stood—  that  he  supposed  her  to  have  some  excellent  (wom- 
an's) reason  for  not  wanting  just  then  to  leave  home. 

"No  ...  not  that,"  she  said  quickly,  and  spurred  on  her 
drooping  courage.  Above  all  things  she  did  not,  then,  want 
to  remember  that  Jerome  longed  for  a  son.  .  .  . 


So,  gradually,  bit  by  bit,  she  got  the  truth  out,  contrived  to 
fling  a  few  rags  of  clothing  upon  the  stark  figure  of  her  astound- 
ing proposition.  Out  came  the  facts  —  the  shorthand  "  facts  " 
of  Emanuel  Harvey's  postal  tuition,  a  passionate  insistence  on 
the  lack  of  that  ulterior  motive,  and  that  astounding  proposi- 
tion of  hers  —  to  go  up  to  London  to  one  of  the  commercial 
schools  there  and  finish  her  training  whilst  Jerome  was  in 
America  .  .  . 

Jerome  went  through  a  week  of  argument,  entreaty  and 
despair.  He  went  to  see  Emanuel  Harvey  at  his  Halifax  school 
and  discovered  (the  idiocy  of  it!)  that  Helena  possessed  the 
"makings  of  an  unusually  good  phonographer."  He  would 
have  been  better  pleased  to  have  heard  Emanuel  Harvey  pro- 
nounce his  wife  a  stenographic  idiot.  Once  or  twice  his  mind 
played  round  the  idea  of  coercion.  Vague  thoughts  came  to 
him,  floating  chaotically  about  a  word  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  before  in  connection  with  Helena,  but,  fortunately  or  un- 
fortunately, he  could  well  imagine  the  scorn  on  Helena's  face 
if  he  tried  that  line  —  and  he  wouldn't  like  Helena  to  despise 
him.  But  at  the  back  of  his  mind  he  always  hoped  —  feebly, 


100  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

childishly  —  that  if  he  left  it  alone  this  wild  cat  scheme  (to 
the  end  he  called  it  that)  would  peter  out.  .  .  .  But  it  did  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  and  a  week  later  Helena  was  installed  in  a 
boarding  house  in  Bloomsbury,  had  entered  her  name  on  the 
register  of  Gwynne's  Commercial  College  in  Finsbury  Pave- 
ment and  Jerome  was  on  his  way  to  America. 


However  it  was  with  Jerome,  Helena  found  only  one  thing 
wrong  with  her  boarding-house  —  it  was  much  too  comfortable. 
Jerome,  during  that  one  week  he  had  spent  there  with  her,  had 
taken  the  largest  available  bedroom  and  had  wondered  why  it 
seemed  to  amuse  her.  But  it  reminded  her,  that  great  bed,  of 
the  Dulac  drawing  (at  least  she  thought  it  was  by  Dulac!)  of 
the  fairy  princess  tossing  wearily  on  the  mountain  of  her 
twenty  mattresses  and  twenty  eiderdowns,  so  very  much  a 
princess  that  she  could  feel  the  pea  beneath  them  all.  But  if 
Jerome  had  read  Andersen  it  was  so  long  ago  he  had  forgotten 
all  about  it,  and,  entirely  missing  the  joke,  he  had  only  insisted 
sternly  that  she  couldn't  live  in  a  bedroom  and  must  have  a 
sitting-room. 

"  But  surely  there's  a  drawing-room,"  Helena  had  begun. 

"  Oh  that  —  a  communal  affair." 

"But,  Jerome,  I  don't  want  special  favours.  A  business 
girl,  I'm  sure,  couldn't  afford  a  private  sitting-room." 

"  You  aren't  a  business  girl,"  Jerome  had  said. 

"  Not  yet,"  Helena  agreed.  (For  by  this  time  it  had  come 
to  that.  Not  only  the  business  school  but  the  business  office  at 
the  end  of  it!) 

Mrs.  Bryan,  the  proprietress  of  Cowdray  House,  had  pro- 
duced a  suitable  sitting-room  with  the  air  of  a  conjurer  pro- 
ducing rabbits  from  a  hat,  and  Helena  had  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  Mrs.  Bryan  was  not  entirely  unaffected  by  the 
magnificent  Fownes  who  had  arrived  each  morning  with  the 
grey  car,  and  "  shown  them  London."  All  things  considered, 
she  was  not  sorry  when  she  said  good-bye  to  Jerome  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  She  was  like  that  to  the  end  —  quite  hard  and 
untouched  by  any  sense  of  the  imminence  of  farewell  —  even 
when  Jerome  on  Euston  Station  looked  at  her  out  of  hungry 


SHADOW  101 

eyes,  and,  with  a  knife  turning  and  twisting  in  his  heart, 
implored  her  to  give  him  another  kiss.  The  things  she  had 
thought  of  there  on  that  dusty  station,  the  things  she  had  seen 
and  heard,  were  queeV,  happy,  impersonal  things  —  porters 
passionately  entreating  passengers  to  take  their  seats:  the 
haste  and  clumsiness  of  the  people  who  kissed  and  were  kissed 
(so  many  kisses,  and  with  an  amusing  unanimity  about  them, 
as  though  the  porter's  stentorian  voice  had  wound  up  some 
hidden  machinery,  compelling  them  to  this  queer  osculatory 
exhibition) ;  and  Fownes  strolling  past,  magnificent  in  great 
coat,  touching  his  hat  to  Jerome  who  did  not  see  him,  and  to 
Helena  who  did.  She  had  looked  after  him  with  her  faint 
crooked  smile  and  had  reflected  that  for  just  six  months  she 
might  relax.  For  just  so  long  at  least  there  would  be  no 
Fownes  to  "  live  up  to." 

But  Jerome  saw  nothing  and  nobody  save  Helena  standing 
there  with  her  sweet  oblique  smile  —  the  Helena  all  the  world 
might  know.  And  he  saw  that  she  wasn't  going  to  miss  him: 
that  his  failure  was  worse  than  he  had  known  —  even  as  bad  as 
all  that.  None  of  the  keys  he  had  tried  had  fitted.  The  inner 
self  he  wanted  to  get  at  was  locked  away  from  him  still,  and 
his  stock  of  keys  had  run  out.  Something  within  him  felt 
jagged  and  torn.  One  queer  detached  part  of  him  was  angry; 
resenting  this  thing  that  had  happened  to  him,  this  avalanche 
of  feeling  that  had  descended  upon  him.  He  did  not  want  to 
suffer.  He  wanted  happiness.  Happiness  and  Helena;  but 
Helena  anyway  —  the  real  Helena,  the  strange  essential  woman 
hidden  away  there  out  of  his  reach. 

Just  one  of  the  many  points  of  interest  a  generous  world  had 
given  him  —  so  Helena  had  said  of  Jerome  and  his  affection 
for  her.  And  she  really  did  believe  it.  For  so  clever  a  girl 
she  could  be  at  times  incredibly  stupid  where  this  man  she 
had  married  was  concerned.  It  was  many  months  before  she 
began  k>  realise  that  her  calculations  had  gone  astray  —  that, 
somewhere,  her  neatly  worked  sum  was  "  out." 


Cowdray  House  was  full,  Helena  discovered,  of  a  good  many 
people  who  not  only  did  not  interest  her  but  did  not  seem  to 


102  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

interest  each  other,  and  one  nice  boy  who  interested  everybody. 
His  name  was  Baxter  —  James  Hallford  Baxter,  though  nobody 
remembered  that  because  "  Jimmy  "  was  so  much  more  suit- 
able and  human.  And  Jimmy,  as  it  happened,  had  fallen  head 
over  heels  in  love  with  Helena  on  that  very  first  evening  when 
she  and  Jerome  had  burst  like  an  unbelievable  vision  into  the 
dull  respectability  of  Mrs.  Bryan's  dining-room.  But  as  Jimmy 
was  only  just  twenty-one  this  didn't  matter  because  it  gave 
him  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  get  over  it.  Just  at  present, 
however,  Jimmy  didn't  want  to  "  get  over  it " ;  he  was  con- 
tent just  to  sit  opposite  Helena  at  dinner  and  he  contrived 
to  look  as  though  he  sat  in  heaven.  He  handed  her  what  she 
wanted  at  table,  before  she  wanted  it,  and  flew,  a  galvanised 
Mercury,  to  open  doors  for  her.  After  a  while  he  manoeuvred 
for  a  more  intimate  seat  in  heaven:  sat  not  opposite  Helena 
but  at  her  side  and  talked  to  her  quite  brightly  of  the  drama. 
Later  he  suggested  that  the  drama  was  a  subject  they  might 
study  together:  he  was  in  need,  he  told  her,  of  an  occasional 
pleasant  evening.  Life  was  so  "  samey."  (Really,  life  did 
seem  to  bore  Jimmy:  he  had  so  much  money  and  so  much 
leisure,  far  more  of  both  than  was  good  for  him,  because 
"  reading  for  the  Bar,"  if  you  have  no  more  enthusiasm  for  it 
than  Jimmy  had,  takes  up  surprisingly  little  of  either.) 

But  Helena  was  not  in  town  for  the  purpose  of  providing 
James  Hallford  Baxter  with  "  pleasant  evenings,"  and  after  a 
little  Jimmy  gave  it  up.  That  is  to  say,  althqugh  he  never 
ceased  to  ask  his  question  he  did  cease  to  expect  Helena  to  say 
"  yes."  His  invitation  became  just  part  of  the  simple  ritual  of 
Mrs.  Bryan's  quite  excellent  seven  o'clock  dinner. 

At  Gwynne's  Commercial  School  in  the  City  was  a  rigid 
discipline  that  relaxed  scarcely  oftener  than  the  moon  is  blue, 
for  to  Henry  Herbert  Gwynne,  its  Principal,  a  school  remained 
a  school  whether  you  were  sixteen  or  sixty.  He  said  so  con- 
tinually. He  also  said  that  if  you  wanted  to  "  slack "  you 
didn't  (if  you  were  wise)  come  to  Gwynne's  for  the  purpose. 
Henry  Herbert  Gwynne  ("H.H."  as  any  day  below  stairs  you 
might  hear  impudent  Sixteen,  partly  Jewish  and  partly  Chris- 
tian, refer  to  him)  was  an  Irishman  who  hid  a  native  dislike 
of  women  under  a  grudging  appreciation  of  their  business 
abilities.  Now  nearing  his  forty-fifth  birthday,  he  could  re- 


SHADOW  103 

member  the  days  when  a  woman  in  an  office  Was  a  rarity,  but 
even  then  he  had  cherished  a  conviction  that  the  day  was  com- 
ing when  she"  would  be  nothing  of  the  sort.  And  to  this  intui- 
tion Gwynne's  Commercial  College  owed  its  existence.  Like 
most  similar  institutions  (and  it  flourished)  it  was  run  on  a 
system  of  "  results  ";  you  realised  that  as  soon  as  you  entered 
the  classrooms,  even  if  you  had  missed  it  as  you  turned  over 
the  pages  of  the  illustrated  prospectus!  From  the  first  day 
at  Gwynne's  you  ceased  to  be  an  individual  at  all;  you  be- 
came the  living  embodiment  of  a  potential  result! 

Mr.  Gwynne  accepted  Helena  with  alacrity  because  of  her 
"  matric.,"  because  of  her  obvious  enthusiasm  and  because  of 
the  really  good  "  grounding  "  Emanuel  Harvey  had  given  her. 
And  Helena  accepted  Mr.  Gwynne  —  partly  because  she  had, 
on  the  whole,  very  little  to  do  with  him,  and  partly  because 
xwhen  she  did  she  found  him  amusing.  Irritable  men  she  had 
met,  but  the  man  who  flew  into  so  bad  a  rage  that  he  became 
lyrical  in  his  abuse  of  you,  was  a  new  type  to  her.  Whilst 
Sixteen,  its  insolence  temporarily  banished,  paled  and  cowered 
beneath  the  trenchant  emphasis  of  an  Irish  brogue  lashing  its 
stupidity  and  ignorance,  Helena  sat  still  and  wondered  why  it 
should  be  the  Christian  girls  it  reduced  to  tears  whilst  Miss 
Levy  upheld  Miss  Abrahams  untiringly  in  a  praiseworthy  ef- 
fort to  show  a  united  front  to  the  worst  onslaught  of  the  Irish 
temperament. 

The  only  other  male  member  of  the  staff  with  whom  Helena 
came  into  contact  was  a  fair,  ruddy-faced  man  from  Angela's 
county  who  despised  the  cockney  trick  of  ignoring  the  letter 
"  r,"  and  who  loved  shorthand  almost  as  much  as  journalism 
(which  he  practised  in  his  spare  time,  what  there  was  of  it. 
There  couldn't,  Helena  felt,  be  much).  Mr.  Calderson  ad- 
mired Helena  because  she  recognised  an  "  r  "  when  she  saw 
one,  because  she  knew  the  meaning  of  words  and  could  read 
the  shorthand  she  wrote  (a  rare  accomplishment  that)  and 
never  wrote  nonsense  when  she  couldn't  (a  still  rarer  accom- 
plishment). Helena  found  his  jokes  rather  tiresome,  but 
rather  imagined  shorthand  jokes  were  like  that,  because  she 
once  came  across  another  member  of  the  staff  who  made  them 
too,  and  his  were  just  the  same.  But  Helena  liked  Mr.  Cal- 
derson because  he  was  enthusiastic  and  honest  and  pains- 


104  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

taking,  and  if  he  did  get  irritable,  at  least  it  was  not  with  her. 

JNext  door,  in  the  typewriting  room,  was  a  little  dark  lady 
(Miss  Rollings  by  name)  who  controlled  fifty  typewriters 
(and  the  young  women  who  used  them) ;  who  reduced  type- 
writing to  a  fine  art  and  had  written  several  "  manuals  "  about 
it.  At  Christmas  she  sent  Helena  a  greeting  card  with  a 
railway  train  for  decoration,  all  of  which  (steam  and  all)  had 
been  produced  by  means  of  the  typewriter.  It  was  a  worrying 
sort  of  card  to  get  for  Christmas,  because  you  had  continually 
to  go  back  to  it  to  try  to  find  out  how  it  was  done,  and  "  what  " 
had  been  used  for  "  what." 

But  it  wasn't  only  discipline  and  "  results  "  and  conscientious 
tuition  that  Helena  found  at  Gwynne's,  but  Evey  Frampton. 
And  Evey  was  twenty-one  and  dark,  with  vivid  colouring  that 
made  her  look  like  a  Cardamine  butterfly  or  some  gorgeous 
tropical  flower.  Evey  loved  shorthand  and  books  and  plays: 
and  fresh  air,  the  physical  exhilaration  of  walking,  and  cats 
and  dogs  (dogs  rather  less  than  cats  because  they  were  a  little 
slavish,  even  the  nicest  of  them.  You  couldn't  deny  it). 
Most  things  and  many  people  interested  Evey,  but  not  scenery 
or  relatives  or  musical  comedies  or  classical  concerts.  Evey 
fished  for  her  taboos  with  a  wide  net. 

But  for  Helena  there  was  something  else  about  Evey.  It 
wasn't  only  a  similarity  in  impulse  and  outlook,  nor  that  they 
were  both  rebels,  "  candidates  for  truth,"  but  that  Evey  had 
succeeded  in  doing  what  Helena  had  failed  to  do.  For  two 
years  Evey  had  been  engaged  to  be  married  and  just  one  week 
before  the  date  announced  for  the  ceremony  she  had  broken 
it  off,  not  because  there  was  "  anything  the  matter  with 
Claude,"  but  only  that  he  was  "  the  wrong  man,"  which  was 
reason  enough. 

"  You  see,"  Evey  said  to  Helena,  "  I  was  suddenly  quite 
certain  that  respect  and  admiration  weren't  sufficient.  They're 
not,  for  marriage,  are  they?  " 

"  They're  not,"  Helena  said,  "  once  you  feel  like  that  about 
them.  .  .  ." 


Evey    agreed    with    Helena,    too,    about    the    middle-aged 
spinsters  at  Gwynne's.  .  .  , 


SHADOW  105 

There  were  not  very  many  of  them  and  you  were  thankful 
for  that,  not  liking  to  be  reminded  by  these  relics  of  a  bad  old 
system  how  very  bad  it  was.  It  had  given  these  women  one 
outlook  only  —  that  of  marriage  —  and  missing  that  they  had 
missed  everything.  Here,  in  November,  nineteen-thirteen, 
they  believed  that  still,  for  they  had  been  taught  that  a  woman 
unmarried  was  a  woman  incomplete,  and  however  much  she 
might  pretend  to  be  happy  everyone  knew  she  was  nothing  of 
the  sort. 

And  they  certainly  weren't  happy,  poor  dears.  They 
envied  all  that  was  bright  and  youthful  in  that  busy  bustling 
commercial  school  —  envied  Sixteen  its  lightness  of  heart,  its 
immunity  from  worries  and  problems,  and  the  chances  (they 
thought  of  them  as  chiefly  matrimonial)  that  lay  before  it. 
These  "  odd  women  out "  of  an  egregious  system  had  -drifted 
into  the  shorthand  world  as  into  a  last  forlorn  hope.  They 
came,  some  of  them,  from  good  homes  that  had  disappeared 
with  the  death  of  the  bread-winner,  and  their  "  protected  " 
women-folk  were  flung,  hideously  unprepared,  into  the  vortex 
of  the  money-earning  world.  They  had  tried  "  companioning  " 
and  "  mother's  helping,"  and  some  of  them  had  essayed  to 
run  somebody's  household  or  a  shop  of  their  own;  but  they 
came  now  to  Gwynne's  in  the  city  because  it  seemed  that  the 
sun  of  the  Pitmanites  shone*  ever  so  little  brighter  than  their 
own. 

One  and  all  they  envied  Helena  the  plain  gold  ring  on  her 
finger,  and  wondered  why  she  of  all  people  should  want  to 
learn  shorthand.  It  was  a  subject  which,  for  the  most  part, 
they  learnt  rather  painfully.  It  was  years  since  they  had  been 
to  school.  Since  they  were  sixteen  or  seventeen  their  brains 
had  remained  dormant,  and  were  not  now  to  be  spurred  into 
quickness  of  movement.  The  points  to  which  Sixteen  jumped 
in  a  trice  they  arrived  at  by  a  slow  laborious  process,  extraor- 
dinarily irritating  to  the  Irishman  at  the  head  of  affairs. 
What  they  needed  was  encouragement,  but  encouragement  was 
hardly  a  commodity  that  went  a-begging  at  Gwynne's  —  save 
in  that  form  which  urged  you  to  think  yourself  a  little  stupider 
than  you  really  were.  Praise,  except  of  the  very  faintest 
variety,  was  regarded  at  Gwynne's  as  little  short  of  an  inde- 


106  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

cency.  You  were  never  recommended  for  having  done  a  thing 
well,  but  only  for  having  done  it  a  little  less  ill  than  was 
expected  —  a  policy  which  these  "  odd  women  out "  quite 
definitely  resented  en  bloc.  For  they  were  tired  of  regarding 
themselves  as  failures;  so  tired  of  it  that  sometimes  they  sought 
little  ways  —  queer,  left-handed  little  ways  —  of  rehabilitating 
a  bruised  and  battered  self-esteem.  That  was  why  Miss  Ben- 
nett said  to  Helena  one  day: 

"  You  learned  shorthand  before  you  came  here,  didn't  you?  " 

As  Miss  Bennett  said  it,  it  was  less  an  inquiry  than  an 
accusation.  The  tone  of  her  voice  dared  Helena  to  deny  it. 
But  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  Helena  to  deny  it. 

"  Oh  yes,  for  a  long  while,"  she  said.  "  I  studied  at  home 
and  took  lessons  through  the  post." 

"Through  the  post?  Did  you  really?  Now  it  never  oc- 
curred to  me  to  do  that." 

Helena  felt  that  it  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  which  wouldn't 
occur  to  her.  But  she  didn't  know  what  to  say.  Miss  Bennett 
and  her  circle  bristled  so  easily,  for  all  the  world  like  a  little 
group  of  hedgehogs.  They  wouldn't  let  you  be  friends  with 
them:  resented  you,  somehow,  in  toto. 

"  I  wouldn't  stay  here  another  five  minutes,"  said  Miss 
Bennett  one  day  to  someone  else,  "  if  I  wore  that  on  my  finger, 
would  you?  " 

"  It  may  be  necessary,"  said  someone  else.  "  It's  one  thing 
to  get  a  man,  my  dear  —  quite  another  to  keep  him." 

"  That  costume  wasn't  bought  anywhere  in  London  for 
eight  guineas,"  Miss  Bennett  said,  "  so  it  can't  be  that." 

"And  she's  staying  at  Cowdray  House  in  Bloomsbury 
Square.  I  saw  the  address  on  a  letter  that  fell  out  of  her 
Manual  yesterday.  And  you  don't  stay  at  Cowdray  House  for 
five  shillings  a  week,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  "  said  another.  "  The  first 
bell's  gone.  Let's  go  up.  I  know  those  two  youngsters  will 
get  the  seat  nearest  the  fire,  and  my  feet  yesterday  afternoon 
were  simply  perished." 

Still,  as  Evey  said  encouragingly  to  Helena,  if  there  were 
Miss  Bennett  and  Company  there  had  also  been  Florence 
Nightingale.  Evey  was  always  having  hopeful  thoughts  of 
that  kind. 


SHADOW  107 

8 

Helena  and  Evey  did  most  things  together  these  days  —  took 
to  meeting  each  other  for  theatres,  concerts  (of  the  non- 
classical  "  variety),  walks  and  'bus  rides  (for  Helena  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  grey  car  Jerome  had  left  at  a  Bloomsbury 
garage  with  a  lot  of  orders  as  to  what  was  to  happen  when 
Helena  wanted  to  use  it.  Because  she  never  did).  And  once 
she  went  down  to  Streatham  to  tea  and  met  Evey's  father  and 
mother,  and  a  younger  sister  called  Estelle,  who  converted 
the  Broadwood  grand  in  the  drawing-room  into  an  instrument 
that  plucked  out  every  emotion  you  had  and  piled  them  in  a 
desolate  heap  in  front  of  you. 

"  Estelle,"  Evey  told  Helena,  "  loves  to  harrow  people.  I 
just  hate  her  playing  —  it's  too  .  .  .  too  something  .  .  .  un- 
restrained, p'raps  that's  the  word.  But  everyone  thinks  it's 
wonderful.  Only  father  and  mother  don't  want  to  believe  it. 
They  think  it  would  be  very  nice  for  Estelle  to  be  a  music 
teacher  if  she  cares  about  music  as  much  as  all  that.  But 
that  makes  Estelle  laugh  —  all  she  wants  to  do  is  to  go  to 
Leipsic  to  study.  Mother  hopes  she'll  fall  in  love  and  forget 
all  about  it.  Poor  old  Estelle!  And  poor  old  father  and 
mother,  I  suppose.  It  must  be  awful  being  a  parent.  You 
do  seem  to  have  the  most  unaccountable  children,  don't  you?  " 

That  was  a  point  of  view  Evey's  father  seemed  to  share.  He 
walked  down  to  Streatham  Common  Station  with  Helena  when 
she  left,  and  he  talked  to  her,  as  they  went,  with  a  mixture  of 
affection  and  bewilderment  that  touched  her,  about  his  daugh- 
ters. 

"I  can't  understand,"  he  said,  "how  I  ever  came  to  have 
two  girls  like  that.  They  don't  seem  to  belong  to  me  at  all.  I 
can't  understand  it.  Now,  I  know  where  I  am  with  the  boys." 

Yes,  poor  dear,  he  would,  thought  Helena.  He  was  such  a 
correct  little  man,  so  immaculately  dressed,  so  desperately 
middle-class  to  his  very  finger-tips.  He  was  ready  to  play, 
in  excelsis,  the  affectionate  generous  father.  (He  could  afford 
to  be  generous:  he  was  a  silk  merchant  in  the  city,  with  a 
thriving  business.)  He  was  ready  to  give  these  girls  of  his 
whatever  they  wanted,  and  he  found  that  one  of  them  had  never 
wanted  anything  at  all  but  a  Broadwood  piano  and  the  other 


108  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

cared  about  nothing  but  a  queer  thing  which  she  called  her 
independence.  Helena  thought,  all  the  way  to  Victoria,  of 
that  eminently  correct  little  figure  flying  in  pursuit  of  the 
Eternal  Feminine.  Of  the  Eternal  Feminine  plus  something 
else  that  in  one  case  people  called  "  genius  "  and  in  the  other 
"  discontent."  Mr.  Frampton,  poor  little  man,  was  equally  at 
sea  with  either.  And  he  reminded  Helena  quite  ludicrously 
of  Jerome.  They  both  wanted  their  women-folk  to  be  happy, 
and  they  couldn't  for  the  life  of  them  understand  why  they 
couldn't  be.  .  .  . 

9 

Evey  and  Helena  plodded  steadily  away  at  their  stenographic 
speed  course,  not  altogether  dissatisfied  with  their  progress  and 
maintaining  it  at  a  rate  that  was  happily  more  or  less  uniform. 
They  suffered  together,  and  to  about  the  same  degree,  the  fever 
of  shorthand  enthusiasm  which  descends  some  time  or  other 
upon  most  carefully  taught  students  of  the  Pitmanic  system. 
They  dragged  shorthand  into  all  things,  learned  to  "  think  in 
shorthand,"  acquired  the  queer  trick  of  making  mental  outlines 
of  the  advertisements  that  stared  at  them  from  'bus,  tube  and 
train,  and  traced  them,  to  much  mystification  of  the  travelling 
public,  upon  book  or  paper  with  an  energetic  forefinger.  They 
made  a  simultaneous  discovery  that  shorthand  had  got  into 
modern  literature  —  into  the  novels  of  Mr.  Wells,  Mr.  Bennett 
and  Mr.  Oliver  Onions.  They  laughed  at  Mr.  Wells's  idea  that 
shorthand  could  be  written  with  a  stylographic  pen,  and  at  Mr. 
Bennett's  notion  that  "  capital  punishment "  was  a  "  famous 
grammalogue." 

It  really  was  extraordinary  how  adventurous  and  interesting 
life  had  suddenly  become  for  Helena.  The  twin  arts  and  this 
new  surprising  life  of  freedom  had  brought  a  deliciously 
poignant  happiness  that  ran  through  the  days  like  magic.  Her 
letters  to  Jerome  were  full  of  it,  though  you  would  never  have 
guessed  it  from  the  replies  which  he  sent  her.  Jerome  had  no 
literary  gift  of  expression  and  Helena  could  read  just  nothing 
between  the  lines.  She  could  yet  work  that  neat  sum  of  hers 
without  discovering  any  disturbing  phenomenon  in  regard  to 
the  addition  of  two  and  two.  Quite  sanely  and  sensibly  they 
seemed  still  to  make  four. 


SHADOW  109 

When  the  school  closed  at  Christmas  Helena  gave  herself 
about  another  month  at  the  College  in  the  New  Year,  and 
began  to  measure  her  commercial  chances.  She  wrote  now 
quite  a  creditable  note  at  eighty  words  a  minute,  and  even 
allowing  a  broad  margin  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  she 
counted  upon  a  reliable  speed  of  a  hundred  by  the  beginning 
of  February.  A  hundred  words  a  minute,  Mr.  Gwynne  pointed 
out,  was  nothing  to  boast  about;  but  he  allowed  it  made  a  good 
jumping-board  and  (not  without  some  mixing  of  metaphors) 
pointed  encouragingly  to  the  greater  heights  that  might  be 
reached  by  the  ladder  of  evening  classes  and  the  spring  exam- 
inations. Helena,  buoyantly  optimistic,  booked  herself  for 
both  and  continued  steadily  to"  regard  her  New  Year  outlook. 
Most  of  the  beginners,  who  dived  intrepidly  from  the  spring- 
board of  one  hundred  words  a  minute,  considered  themselves 
lucky,  she  knew,  if  rewarded  with  a  weekly  salary  of  a  pound 
or  twenty-five  shillings.  But  Helena,  pitting  twenty-three 
against  seventeen,  and  with  her  French  and  the  "  Open  Sesame  " 
of  her  "  matric.,"  courageously  hoped  to  do  a  little  better  than 
that.  In  any  case,  whatever  it  was,  she  was  going  to  live  on  it 
until  Jerome  came  back.  That  seemed  the  one  thing  certain 
in  a  world  of  uncertainties,  and  it  bothered  her  a  little,  there- 
fore, when  Jerome  sent  her  twenty  pounds  for  a  Christmas 
present.  Obviously  Jerome  did  not  take  her  seriously  yet. 
Perhaps,  in  that  way,  he  never  would.  But  Helena  disposed 
of  his  cheque  as  she  had  disposed  of  those  others,  signed  and 
blank,  that  he  had  left  with  her.  She  locked  it  away  out  of 
sight  and  presently  she  contrived  to  forget  all  about  it. 

An  unlimited  supply  of  money  belonged,  as  she  frequently 
took  occasion  to  remind  herself,  to  that  one  extremely  pros- 
perous year  of  her  existence,  and  that  already  had  slipped  a 
little  into  the  background.  Even  as  early  as  this,  any  other 
life  than  the  present  one  of  effort  and  industry  had  about  it 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  unreality.  Only  the  moors  remained 
real,  tugging  at  her  heart. 

10 

That  was  why  at  Christmas  she  accepted  Gertrude's  invita- 
tion to  go  down  to  Wimbledon.  A  common  wasn't  a  moor  but 


110  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

it  was  a  good  deal.  For  all  that,  the  visit  was  not  a  success, 
not  only  because  her  brother  Ted  was  there  with  some  new 
words  in  his  vocabulary,  like  "  peach  "  and  "  ripper,"  which 
Helena  did  not  care  about,  but  because  a  new  unfamiliar  at- 
mosphere of  politics  had  descended  upon  "  The  Laurels." 
Edgar,  it  transpired,  had  been  asked  to  stand  as  the  Tory 
candidate  for  East  Rokesby  when  that  seat  fell  vacant  at  the 
end  of  May,  and  for  some  reason  or  other  he  seemed  to  think 
that  if  he  accepted  (and  you  could  see  he  meant  to  accept)  it 
would  be  a  splendid  idea  if  Helena  took  up  her  abode  at  "  The 
Laurels  "  and  turned  her  excellent  shorthand  to  his  account. 
Helena  found  both  Edgar  and  his  idea  a  trifle  wearisome,  be- 
cause nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  say  "  yes,"  and  Ed- 
gar was  essentially  the  tiresome  sort  of  man  who  goes  through 
life  believing  that  a  woman  really  means  "  yes  "  when  she 
says  "no."  Helena  had  her  own  reasons  for  refusing:  her 
dislike  of  Edgar's  politics,  what  she  knew  of  them,  for  one 
thing,  and  her  recollection  that  only  the  day  before  Edgar 
had  made  himself  supremely  ridiculous  with  a  piece  of  mistle- 
toe. Edgar  was  still  very  much  the  same  person  who  had 
tried,  all  those  years  ago,  to  kiss  her  on  the  dark  turn  of  the 
stairs.  .  .  . 

So  disdaining  his  suggestion  that  she  should  keep  her  "  short- 
hand in  the  family,"  Helena  went  back  to  her  commercial 
school  with  a  new  burst  of  enthusiasm  that  was  responsible 
for  the  zeal  with  which,  on  the  first  day  of  the  new  term,  she 
ratified  her  decision  to  enter  for  the  spring  examinations  and 
arranged  to  attend  two  evening  classes  a  week.  She  was  hap- 
pier, so  she  thought,  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  before. 
And  then,  on  that  "  first "  afternoon,  walking  down  with  Evey 
to  her  tram  on  the  Embankment,  something  happened.  .  .  . 

The  immense  surprise  of  it  caught  at  her  breath  like  an  east 
wind.  Her  slow,  comfortable  stride  stopped  with  a  little  jerk, 
and  then  with  a  tremendous  effort  went  on  again.  Evey  had 
noticed  nothing,  and  if  she  had  followed  Helena's  glance  she 
would  have  seen  only  a  young  man  standing  on  a  refuge  in 
the  center  of  the  road  awaiting,  not  too  patiently,  the  pleasure 
of  an  uncertain  tramcar.  But  Helena's  glance  —  a  thing  ut- 
terly careless,  alighting  by  the  purest  accident  where  it  did 
—  had  already  seen  a  good  deal  more  thaa 


SHADOW  111 

have  told  you  that  the  young  man  was  tall  and  slight,  that  he 
wore  a  dark  overcoat  unfastened  at  the  neck;  that  there  was  a 
soft  hat  on  his  head,  and  a  portfolio  under  his  arm.  It  was 
extraordinary,  the  comprehension  of  that  glance  of  hers. 
And  the  effect  of  it.  It  left  her  floundering  in  a  sea  of  poignant 
emotion  above  which  the  sapphire  sky  and  its  one  white  star 
rose  and  fell  madly  together.  Evey's  voice  reached  her  from 
an  immeasurable  distance  —  an  absurd  jumble  of  words  from 
another  world. 

"It's  absurd,  isn't  it,  to  pretend  that  Claude  was  heart- 
broken, because,  you  know,  he's  engaged  again  already." 

The  tram  moved  on.  For  one  second  it  obliterated  the  young 
man  on  the  refuge;  then  Helena  saw  that  he  was  crossing  the 
road  .  .  .  making  straight  for  them  .  .  .  stepping  on  to  the 
kerb.  Unheeding,  he  passed  by  on  their  left,  almost  touching 
Evey's  shoulder  as  he  did  so.  Beneath  the  glare  of  a  street 
lamp,  Helena  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale  face,  a  red  mouth, 
and  long  straight  lashes  over  eager  grey  eyes  before  the  night 
and  the  crowd  swallowed  him  up.  Suddenly  the  things  Evey 
was  saying  ceased  to  concern  her  in  the  least.  Nothing  con- 
cerned her  save  this  thing  that  had  happened  to  her,  and  the 
appalling  knowledge  that  it  could  hurt  —  like  this  —  after  all 
these  months! 

Presently  Evey  climbed  on  to  her  tram  and  Helena  stood 
there  on  the  pavement  looking  up  at  her,  without  seeing  her  at 
all.  When  the  tram  moved  on  she  went  and  leaned  her  elbows 
on  the  parapet  of  the  Embankment  and  looked  down  into  the 
muddy  waters  of  the  Thames.  But  she  saw  them  no  more  than 
she  had  seen  Evey  and  her  tram.  Something  had  wiped  out 
the  Embankment;  had  flung  her  back  precipitately  into  a  dim, 
unshuttered  room  that  looked  out  on  to  a  moor.  And  what  she 
saw  now  was  a  stormy  sky  up  which  there  straggled  a  slim  and 
impudent  moon  —  a  silver  thread  on  a  black  gown.  .  .  . 

For  the  young  man  who  had  crossed  the  road  was  Hilary 
Sargent. 


CHAPTER  SIX 


SHE  saw  him  twice  quite  soon  after  that,  and  on  neither 
occasion  did  he  see  her. 
Afterwards,  at  least,  she  was  grateful  for  that.  On 
that  second  day,  as  she  had  walked  home,  Helena's  proud 
mouth  had  curved  in  disdain  of  herself,  so  hateful  was  it  to  be 
reminded  of  that  year-old  blunder  of  hers.  It  took  too  much 
out  of  her  —  or  out  of  her  pride.  It  scarcely  mattered  which, 
since  the  result  was  the  same.  Yet  certainly  it  did  seem  to 
be  her  pride  which  suffered  most.  She  lashed  herself  with 
scorn,  hating  herself  because  a  man  who  had  not  wasted  a 
thought  upon  her  should  have  this  tremendous  power  over 
her.  For  all  her  modernity  that  was  some  part,  at  least,  of 
the  trouble  with  her. 

But  though  she  applied  the  lash,  she  winced  under  it.  And 
for  that,  too,  she  despised  herself. 

Happily  there  were  other  things  to  think  about.  It  was 
quite  early  in  January  when  Mr.  Gwynne  sent  her  along  to  a 
temporary  situation  in  the  office  of  a  solicitor,  where,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  she  came  up  against  the  anomaly  of  the 
English  Divorce  Laws.  It  was  queer,  she  used  to  think,  that 
divorce  should  be  so  difficult,  but  more  queer  than  anything 
else  was  the  fact  that  it  should  be  assumed  that  it  must  also  be 
disgusting. 

Those  three  weeks  for  Helena  were  fevered  with  delight,  with 
one  minute  of  positively  delirious  excitement  on  the  Friday  of 
the  first,  when  the  office  boy  placed  on  her  desk  a  sealed, 
diminutive  envelope  inscribed  with  her  name.  The  two  gold 
coins  it  contained  she  loved  the  sight  of,  because  they  gave  her 
a  new  value  in  her  own  eyes.  They  represented  the  first  money 
she  had  earned  —  that  she  had  received  for  services  definitely 
rendered.  But  it  was  not  the  money  that  mattered.  Money 

112 


SHADOW  113 

never  did  matter,  much,  with  Helena.  Even  now  it  was  only  a 
symbol  of  the  thing  which  really  did  matter  —  the  justification 
of  Helena  Courtney  by  Helena  Courtney. 

There  was,  too,  another  thing.  Her  new  work  was  a  benevo- 
lent germ  —  a  sort  of  phagocyte  —  feeding  on  the  germs  of  her 
discontent  and  of  her  humiliation,  so  that  the  quiet  happiness 
of  the  past  weeks  came  back  to  her.  The  analytical  knife  had 
come  to  rest  again. 

Then  at  the  close  of  her  temporary  engagement  with  Mr. 
Ford,  the  solicitor,  Jerome  wrote  that  his  return  must  be  de- 
layed. He  would  not  be  able,  he  was  afraid,  to  get  away  until 
the  end  of  May:  and  he  sounded  annoyed.  But  Helena 
scarcely  noticed  that:  she  noticed,  these  days,  so  little  about 
Jerome's  letters,  which  were  not  particularly  interesting. 
Neither  did  she  think  over  much  about  Jerome  himself,  so  that 
sometimes  it  almost  looked  as  though  the  phagocyte  had  gone 
too  far  and  had  eaten  up  Jerome  as  well.  .  .  . 


Back  there  at  the  Commercial  College  a  week  passed  as  others 
had  passed  before  it,  save  that  Evey  was  away  with  influenza 
and  Miss  Bennett  had  struggled  up  at  last  into  the  Speed  Room. 
Miss  Bennett  was  a  poor  substitute  for  Evey,  and  Helena  be- 
came rather  tired  of  answering  her  eternal  questions  as  to  the 
ritual  of  life  in  an  office.  You  could  see  she  was  scared  at  the 
thought  of  it,  that  she  hungered,  and  would  hunger  for  ever, 
after  that  comfortable  existence  in  that  vanished  middle-class 
home  in  the  suburbs. 

During  Evey's  absence  Helena  interviewed  several  business 
men  as  prospective  employers,  who,  one  and  all,  declined  her 
services,  and  for  the  same  reason.  None  of  them  cared  to  em- 
ploy a  married  woman.  Once,  Miss  Bennett  obtained  the 
situation  in  her  stead,  and  as  they  had  both  worked  tests  had 
quite  naturally  concluded  that  hers  was  better  than  Helena's. 
It  was  a  triumph  for  which  she  had  waited  a  long  time;  and 
in  the  light  of  her  delirious  happiness,  any  masculine  preju- 
dice, however  absurd  (and  Mr.  Gwynne  seemed  to  think  it  very 
absurd  indeed),  was  to  Helena  more  than  justified.  It  gave  to 
Miss  Bennett,  for  just  this  once,  something  of  all  that  it  had 


114  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

snatched  from  her,  and  Helena  did  not  begrudge  her.  For  all 
that,  two  days  later  when  Mr.  Gwynne  sent  her  to  interview 
Mr.  Smith,  chief  clerk  to  Wickham,  Toole  &  Co.,  of  London 
Wall,  she  slipped  her  wedding-ring  into  her  purse  and  did  not 
correct  Messrs.  Wickham  &  Toole's  head  clerk  when  he  ad- 
dressed her  presently  as  "  Miss  Courtney."  Mr.  Smith  en- 
gaged her.  Could  she  start  the  next  morning? 

So  at  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  day  Helena  hung  up  her 
hat  and  coat  in  the  offices  of  Wickham,  Toole  &  Co.,  Wool 
Merchants,  of  London  Wall.  It  was  a  Tuesday  in  the  third 
week  of  February,  and  outside  there  were  racing  clouds  and 
a  mad  wind.  .  .  . 

For  a  fortnight  Helena  worked  at  the  side  of  Miss  Carey,  the 
girl  whose  place  she  had  been  engaged  to  fill.  Miss  Carey  was 
leaving  to  be  married  to  a  bank  clerk,  and  Helena's  education 
as  to  the  financial  status  of  bank  clerks  had  been  somewhat 
extensive.  Her  mother  had  married  her  father,  as  a  branch 
manager,  at  a  salary  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  — 
and  her  mother,  she  knew,  had  considered  herself  miserably 
poor.  Miss  Carey's  fiance  was  not  even  a  branch  manager: 
most  probably,  Helena  reflected,  he  had  had  to  wait  until  his 
salary  reached  the  matrimonial  minimum  —  that  "  inexcusable 
outrage  on  the  liberty  of  the  subject,"  as  her  father  called  it. 
Miss  Carey,  however,  was  entirely  philosophic  about  these 
things.  She  admitted  that  "  Tom  "  was  not  well  off.  "  But 
then,"  she  said,  "  bank  clerks  never  are  until  they're  middle- 
aged,  and  if  one  waited  for  money  one  might  wait  for  ever. 
Money  isn't  everything,  and  you're  only  young  once,  after 
all.  An  office  is  all  very  well,  but  you  don't  want  to  work  in 
it  all  your  life,  do  you?  " 

Later  Helena  was  introduced  to  "  Tom  "  as  "  Mr.  Wright." 
He  came  to  the  office  just  before  six,  and  he  sat  reading  the 
Star  whilst  Miss  Carey  cleared  up  and  locked  her  desk.  Helena 
saw  only  a  tall,  plain  young  man,  very  neat  and  clean  as  to 
collar  and  tie,  and  with  neat  patches  on  his  brightly  shined 
boots.  But  then,  Helena  had  not  Miss  Carey's  eyes.  Miss 
Carey  contrived  to  see  a  good  deal  more  than  that  —  and,  too, 
a  good  deal  less.  It  was  quite  possible,  for  instance,  that  she 
didn't  see  the  patched  boots  at  all,  or  perhaps  she  didn't  mind 
them.  But  once  Helena  caught  the  lovers  looking  at  each 


SHADOW  115 

other.  It  was  a  glance  which,  if  it  knew  anything  at  all  of 
neatly  patched  boots,  took  them  in  and  annihilated  them.  "  Of 
course,"  thought  Helena,  "  if  they  care  like  that,"  and  she  left 
it  at  that.  All  the  same,  the  ellipsis  was  comprehensive.  It 
took  in  the  tiny  house  in  North  London  and  the  drudgery  of  it 
and  Marion  Carey's  heavily  mortgaged  liberty.  It  took  in, 
too,  the  tone  of  her  voice  as  she  had  said,  "You  can't  have 
everything,  can  you?  "  And  it  made  Helena  wistful,  because 
in  the  light  of  that  one  intercepted  glance  it  did  certainly 
seem  as  if  Miss  Carey  was  going  to  get  what  she  wanted  most. 


It  was  not  until  her  last  day  at  the  office  that  Marion  Carey 
uttered  her  word  of  warning  —  rather  with  an  air,  Helena 
thought,  of  saying  something  she  felt  she  ought  to  have  said 
before. 

"  Steer  clear  of  Wickham,"  was  what  she  said.  "  He's  our 
Managing  Director  —  and  a  beast.  You  understand?  You 
know  the  proverb?  Forewarned  is  forearmed.  There's  some- 
thing in  it,  too." 

"I  suppose  there  is,"  Helena  said.  But  for  just  one  second 
that  confident  smile  which  Jerome  had  found  so  annoying  sent 
her  red  mouth  aslant.  And  that  meant  —  as  Jerome  could 
very  well  have  told  you  —  that  she  was  feeling  more  than  a 
match  for  a  dozen  Rupert  Wickhams. 

That  was  on  the  Saturday.  On  the  Monday  Helena  entered 
upon  her  full  inheritance  in  her  new  post  and  Marion  Carey 
became  Mrs.  Thomas  Wright.  She  and  Helena  never  met 
again,  but  on  the  Wednesday  there  came  for  Helena  at  the 
office  an  inch  of  wedding  cake  in  several  inches  of  cardboard 
box.  Helena  put  it  in  her  drawer  and  managed  somehow  to 
forget  all  about  it.  When  eventually  she  remembered  it  again 
she  found  the  mice  had  forestalled  her:  they  had  eaten  not 
only  the  inch  of  cake  and  two  inches  at  least  of  the  cardboard 
box,  but  part  of  the  little  three-cornered  card  upon  which  Mrs. 
Wright's  maiden  name  had  been  neatly  transfixed  with  an 
arrow.  Helena  did  not  grudge  the  mice  their  meal,  but  they 
prevented  her  for  ever  from  learning  the  exact  position  of  that 
tiny  house  in  North  London. 


116  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Quite  uneventfully  a  week  passed  by.  Helena  had  become 
used  to  her  work  and  was  rapidly  acquiring  a  steady  confidence 
in  her  own  ability,  very  gratifying  to  her  self-esteem.  As  Miss 
Carey  had  been,  she  was  the  only  woman  on  the  staff,  which 
was  a  small  one,  and  consisted,  besides  Smith,  of  Smith's  two 
subordinates  and  an  office  boy.  Helena  liked  Smith.  He  lived 
at  Ealing  and  cultivated  a  garden.  He  talked  to  her  at  times 
of  this  garden  and,  too,  of  his  wife  and  baby,  and  she  marvelled 
at  an  enthusiasm  that  could  be  so  blissfully  impartial.  Occa- 
sionally he  brought  her  a  bunch  of  daffodils  which  he  had 
grown  "  under  glass,"  and  he  explained  that  bringing  them  to 
the  office  was  "  the  wife's  idea."  "  She  would  have  me  bring 
them,"  he  said.  "  Thought  they'd  liven  the  office  up  a  bit." 
You  got  the  impression  that  Mrs.  Smith's  heart  bled  perpetually 
for  anyone  who  worked  in  an  office.  But  Helena  was  glad  to 
have  the  daffodils.  All  day  long  they  stood  on  the  top  of  her 
desk  in  their  clumsy  earthenware  vessel  and  reminded  her  of 
the  spring  that  was  coming. 

Having  consolidated  her  position  —  and  her  thirty  shillings 
a  week  —  in  the  office  of  Wickham  &  Toole,  Helena  made  her 
first  real  declaration  of  independence  by  leaving  Cowdray 
House  and  taking  a  bed-sitting-room  in  Guilford  Street.  Cow- 
dray  House  was  not,  so  she  had  decided,  within  the  capacity 
of  a  business  girl  earning  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  thirty 
shillings  was  what,  for  the  time  being,  she  proposed  to  live 
upon.  Nothing  would  induce  her  to  stay  there  at  Cowdray 
House  until  Jerome  returned  and  collected  her  (like  a  bale  of 
goods) .  For  she  was  able  still  —  a  little  cold,  a  little,  a  very 
little  arrogant  —  to  move  along  the  even  tenor  of  her  way, 
ludicrously  blind  and  deaf  to  the  hurricane  of  feeling  she  had 
aroused  in  Jerome:  was  still  convinced  that  he  had  what  he 
wanted;  that  she  and  his  work  shared  the  honours  between 
them.  Helena  was  young  and  her  judgments  had  the  touch  of 
austerity  that  belongs  to  the  judgments  of  youth.  She  had 
suffered  as  yet  scarcely  at  all  —  and  then  only  in  her  pride. 
She  had  not  been  touched  —  as  had  Jerome  —  to  the  quick. 
The  ice  which,  for  one  brief  span,  had  begun  to  melt  had 
frozen  over  again.  Down  below  the  surface  deep  things  might 
stir  and  quiver,  but  they  did  not  dare  to  raise  their  heads. 

One  person   at  Cowdray  House  was  inconsolable   at  her 


SHADOW  117 

imminent  departure:  and  that  person,  of  course,  was  Jimmy 
Baxter.  Jimmy  mattered  little  to  Helena.  Nothing  stirred 
beneath  the  ice  for  him.  Nevertheless,  when  he  beseeched  her 
as  a  "  farewell  treat "  to  let  him  take  her  to  a  theatre,  she  sud- 
denly relented  and  agreed. 

"You  will?  Good  egg!"  Jimmy  said.  "What  shall  it 
be?" 

Helena  looked  at  him  and  was  suddenly  sorry  for  him  —  not 
sorry  enough  to  feel  the  pang  of  it  herself,  but,  at  any  rate, 
sorry  enough  to  make  her  choose  something  that  would  not 
bore  Jimmy  overmuch.  "A  Night  with  the  Gods"  she  said, 
mentioning  a  stubborn  success  now  in  its  third  year.  Jimmy, 
who  had  resigned  himself  to  the  Ibsen  play  then  running, 
was  relieved,  though  he  could  have  stood  even  Ibsen  for  Helena 
Courtney. 

Over  the  'phone  he  secured  stall  seats  and  they  got  down  to 
the  London  rather  early.  The  house  rilled  up  rapidly.  Five 
minutes  before  the  curtain  was  due  to  rise  the  stalls  were  full 
save  for  a  couple  of  seats  three  rows  in  front  of  Jimmy  and 
Helena.  Over  the  house  there  ran  a  buzz  of  pleasurable  an- 
ticipation; the  orchestra  was  playing  the  latest  waltz,  cloying 
and  seductive,  and  Helena  was  glancing  at  her  programme 
for  about  the  fiftieth  time  when  Jimmy  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"Hallo,  I  know  that  chap!" 

Helena  looked  up,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  of  a 
young  man  with  a  girl  in  blue  moving  to  the  two  empty  places 
just  below.  The  girl  Helena  had  not  seen  before,  but  the  man 
—  no  need  to  look  twice  —  the  man  was  Hilary  Sargent. 

Helena  was  breathing  deeply;  but  she  had  herself  well  in 
hand.  Even  had  Jimmy  been  looking  at  her  he  would  not  have 
known  she  was  excited.  Her  face  was  like  a  mask  —  expres- 
sionless. Jimmy  wasn't  clever:  he  would  merely  have  thought 
she  was  bored. 

"  Queer  chap,  Sargent,"  he  was  saying,  "  haven't  seen  him 
for  over  two  years:  last  ran  across  him  in  Paris.  We  were  at 
school  together.  He  was  my  senior  by  four  or  five  years,  but 


country  —  used  to  stop 
up  there  as  a  kid.     Up  your  way,  isn't  it?     Had  some  things 


118  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

in  last  year's  shows.  Seems  to  be  getting  on.  Nice-looking 
beggar,  isn't  he?  " 

Helena's  answers  were  mechanical.  She  forced  her  voice  to 
a  note  of  indifference  and  wished  the  curtain  would  go  up 
because  that  might  stop  Jimmy  talking;  his  staccato  matter- 
of-fact  sentences  were  beating  against  her  brain  with  all  the 
force  of  a  sledge-hammer. 

"There  was  some  tale,  I  remember,  about  his  mother, 
Mary  Hilary,  the  actress.  That's  her  portrait  downstairs  in 
the  vestibule:  like  her  a  bit,  isn't  he?  I  never  knew  the  rights 
of  it,  but  some  bounder  at  school  began  to  talk  about  it  and 
there  was  a  shindy.  Someone  had  taught  him  to  box,  and  after 
the  row  he  just  let  himself  go.  The  joke  of  it  was  that  he 
hated  fighting:  you  had  to  wind  him  up  like  that  before  he'd 
move.  I  can  tell  you,  the  bounders.  .  .  .  Hallo,  the  curtain's 
going  up." 

It  went  up  —  on  the  hero  of  the  farce  in  an  ecstasy  of  drunk- 
enness. Helena  began  to  laugh,  and  Jimmy  who  did  not  know 
it  was  the  long  arm  of  coincidence  and  not  the  farce  which  was 
amusing  her,  had  the  second  surprise  of  the  evening.  Because 
it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  the  sort  of  person  who 
would  see  the  quite  remarkable  humour  of  insobriety. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  act  Sargent  and  his  companion  left 
their  seats  to  speak  to  some  people  sitting  nearer  the  front.  As 
they  stood  they  were  on  the  extreme  left  of  Jimmy  and  Helena, 
and  Helena,  on  Jimmy's  right,  was  half-hidden  by  him  as  he 
sat  forward  in  his  seat,  as  if  trying  to  catch  Sargent's  eye. 
"  Do  you  mind  if  I  have  a  word  with  him?  "  he  asked,  just  as 
Sargent  turned,  caught  Jimmy's  eye,  raised  a  hand  of  recogni- 
tion and  came  over  towards  him. 

He  had  not  yet  seen  Helena. 

The  passage  of  time  that  elapsed  between  his  recognition  of 
Jimmy  and  the  moment  when  he  stood  there  at  their  side, 
seemed  to  Helena  like  a  century.  She  sat  very  still,  looking 
straight  ahead,  hearing  above  the  violin  strains  of  that  sickly 
waltz  the  deep  painful  beating  of  her  own  heart.  And  still 
Hilary  had  not  seen  her.  He  was  coming  on,  steering  his  way 
carefully  past  the  men  and  women  who  intervened  between 
him  and  Jimmy;  and  even  right  at  the  last  it  was  only  Jimmy 
he  saw  —  not  that  straight  figure  in  amethyst  and  silver  sitting 


SHADOW  119 

there,  utterly  quiet,  on  his  right.    And  then  Jimmy  did  it.     He 
said,  "  Let  me  introduce  Mrs.  Courtney." 

Up  came  the  traitorous  colour  to  Helena's  cheeks;  by  the 
hugest  effort  in  the  world  she  turned  her  head,  and  for  just  an 
instant  they  remained  there  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
though  neither  of  them  knew  it,  both  were  trembling.  They 
did  not  shake  hands.  They  did  not  say  they  had  met  before. 
They  did  not  say  anything.  They  were,  both  of  them,  beyond 
words.  The  smile  on  Hilary's  face  had  not  so  much  disap- 
peared as  stiffened.  He  bowed.  Helena  bowed.  And  it  was 
over.  Jimmy  and  Hilary  drifted  into  their  talk  and  Helena 
sat  there  praying  for  the  dark. 

Before  it  came,  Hilary  addressed  her  once  —  just  before  he 
turned  to  go.  And  he  had  the  courage  to  look  her  full  in  the 
face. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  piece,  Mrs.  Courtney?  " 

And  Helena  said,  "  Oh,  it's  really  very  funny,  isn't  it?  " 

After  all  this  time,  that,  when  they  met  face  to  face,  was  all 
they  could  find  to  say  to  each  other.  The  banality  of  it  was 
almost  unbelievable. 

Unexpectedly  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  second  act.  Mr. 
Sargent  went.  In  the  sudden  gloom  Helena  saw  him  groping 
his  way  through  the  auditorium  to  his  seat.  On  the  stage  the 
hero,  drunk  no  longer,  was  making  violent  love  to  another 
man's  wife,  whose  objection  was  not  overpoweringly  evident. 
And  that,  too,  appeared  to  strike  Helena  as  extraordinarily 
funny.  Jimmy  could  not  understand  it.  There  was  obviously 
another  Helena  Courtney  he  did  not  know.  He  wondered, 
poor  boy,  whether  he  liked  it  better  or  not  so  well,  and  he  did 
not  know  that  when  Helena  was  not  laughing  her  face  was 
scornful  and  a  little  defiant,  and  that  she  was  biting  her  lips 
to  keep  them  still.  .  .  . 

As  they  walked  home  beneath  a  starlit  sky,  with  a  southwest 
wind,  that  smelt  of  rain,  ruffling  the  deep  waves  of  Helena's 
gold-brown  hair,  Jimmy  asked  her  if  she  had  enjoyed  her 
evening.  For  all  her  merriment  he  could  not  help  having 
his  doubts  about  it. 

And  Helena,  dragging  her  wrap  out  of  the  hands  of  the  wind, 
had  said,  "Oh,  yes.  It's  so  much  like  life.  Life's  a  farce, 
don't  you  think,  Jimmy?  " 


120  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Really,  at  that  moment,  that  was  exactly  how  life  did  look 
to  her. 

4 

Either  it  looked  a  little  less  like  it  during  the  next  few  days 
or  Helena  had  too  many  other  things  to  think  about  to  have 
time  for  things  abstract.  For  she  and  Evey  were  busy  making 
that  bed-sitting-room  in  Guilford  Street  "  possible,"  and  it 
took  some  doing.  But  Mrs.  Rogers  (Helena's  landlady)  was 
amenable.  She  raised  no  objection  to  removing  her  curtains 
and  a  stuffed  fish,  whose  pitifully  open  mouth  very  nearly 
convinced  Helena  it  struggled  yet  for  breath.  She  hoped  Mrs. 
Rogers  was  not  hurt  at  its  banishment,  but  it  had  to  be.  It  was 
Helena  or  the  fish:  they  could  not  both  live  in  that  room. 
So  the  fish  was  carried  forth  and  Helena  went  out  and  bought 
chintz  curtains  at  Liberty's  and  an  oriental  coverlet  with  which 
to  convert  her  bed  into  a  couch  by  day.  A  diligent  search  in 
the  shops  of  the  Bloomsbury  picture  dealers  resulted  in  the 
purchase  of  sepia  copies  of  Rossetti's  "  Beata  Beatrix  "  and  the 
"Well-Beloved,"  and  the  "Aurora"  of  Burne- Jones.  But 
when  she  had  them  on  the  walls  Helena  longed,  despairingly, 
for  some  colour.  She  wanted,  horribly,  that  little  luminous 
sketch  of  Haworth  away  there  amid  Jerome's  heavy  oils  in  her 
mauve  drawing-room.  She  wrestled  with  her  mood  for  half  the 
evening,  then  went  out  and  bought  a  copy  of  Greiffenhagen's 
"  Idyll,"  because  its  red  sun  and  redder  poppies  answered 
some  urgent  need  of  hers,  and  because,  too,  she  loved  the  line 
that  the  white  arm  of  the  shepherdess  took.  She  bought  also, 
on  this  expedition,  for  seven-and-sixpence  each,  a  small  plaster 
cast  of  Phryne  and  a  head  of  Beethoven;  and  when  she  got 
them  all  home  she  wondered  if  she  had  secured  the  right 
things.  The  fear  that  she  hadn't  made  her  restless,  and  then 
Evey  came  in  and  enthused  over  the  whole  effect. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  got  the  Greiffenhagen,"  she  said.  "  It's 
the  first  picture  I  ever  really  wanted  to  have.  I've  always 
remembered  the  look  of  that  arm.  I  love  arms,  don't  you?  " 

So  Helena  was  reassured.  And,  anyway,  this  room  was  her 
own  as  no  other  room  had  ever  been  before,  and  she  was  very 
happy  in  it. 

Evey  came  often  to  share  her  evening  meal,  and  stayed 


SHADOW  121 

for  "  speed  practice  "  when  the  table  was  cleared.  Through 
the  early  sweet  spring  evenings  they  "  swotted  "  together  at 
this  eternal  shorthand  of  theirs,  for  Evey,  too,  was  chasing  the 
speed  certificate.  Sometimes  they  were  at  it  so  late  that  Evey 
would  be  forced  to  spend  the  night  with  Helena.  They  would 
sit  over  the  fire  hi  their  dressing-gowns  till  midnight,  and  then 
squeeze  together  into  Helena's  bed  that,  properly,  was  only 
big  enough  for  one.  In  the  morning,  wet  or  fine,  Helena 
would  drag  Evey  out  of  bed  at  seven,  fling  open  the  windows 
and  walk  her  round  the  London  streets  while  the  room  aired. 
When  they  got  back  Mrs.  Rogers  would  have  a  fire  and  their 
breakfast  ready;  and  presently  they  would  walk  down  to  the 
City  together,  almost  persuaded,  with  Browning,  that  it  was  the 
best  of  all  possible  worlds,  and  convinced  that  youth  and  the 
spring  must  carry  all  before  them.  For  both  were  irresistible. 
The  days  mellowed  and  grew  longer.  In  Richmond  Park 
the  little  white  flowers  of  the  blackthorn  were  beginning  to 
show  (only  Helena  and  Evey  were  too  busy  to  go  and  look  at 
them) ;  and  in  the  London  streets  women  with  tired  eyes  were 
selling  violets. 

5 

Easter,  in  nineteen-fourteen,  fell  in  the  second  week  of 
April,  and  Evey  and  Helena  went  down  into  Surrey  and  spent 
their  four  holiday-days  amid  the  gold  of  the  gorse,  beneath  a 
windy,  passionate  sky.  And  across  the  land,  stabbing  its  sweet- 
ness, they  heard  all  day  the  call  of  the  cuckoo. 

Even  after  that  Helena  went  back  to  her  office  quite  gladly, 
because  she  was  happy  there,  and  two  days  later  Rupert 
Wickham  suddenly  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  stay  any 
longer.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  she  couldn't  bear  to  remember  it.  Thoughts  of 
it  pursued  her,  however,  came  to  her  in  the  night.  It  made  her 
sick  to  think  of  the  abyss  of  passion  she  had  stared  down  in 
those  few  seconds  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and  struggled  to 
kiss  her.  A  wild  beast  of  rage  had  swept  down  upon  her:  she 
had  fought  tooth  and  nail:  had  realised,  horridly,  how  people 
must  feel  when  they  commit  murder.  But  she  had  not  been 
frightened.  It  was  a  consolation  to  be  able  to  remember  that. 
She  had  only  been  angry.  Even  though  the  whole  staff  had 


122  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

gone,  though  she  was  there  —  alone  —  with  this  unpleasant 
beast;  because  you  can't  possibly  be  frightened  when  you  are 
as  angry  as  all  that. 

The  picture  of  it  all  remained  with  her  for  months.  Smith's 
daffodils  lay  prone  on  the  floor:  the  earthen  vessel  which  had 
contained  them  lay  there,  too,  split  neatly  in  half.  The  water 
had  splashed  the  exquisite  polish  of  Mr.  Wickham's  brown 
boots  and  made  a  long,  thin  track  to  the  window.  Mr.  Wick- 
ham  stood  back  against  his  desk  whither  she  had  managed  at 
last  to  fling  him.  Flushed  and  dishevelled  he  stood  there  ar- 
ranging his  collar,  his  long  legs  spanning  the  thin  track  of 
water  —  like  some  new,  unpleasant  Gulliver  fording  a  Lillipu- 
tian river.  .  .  . 

And  with  the  picture  there  remained  in  her  mind  the  sound  of 
running  feet  on  the  stairs  without,  and  Smith's  voice  as  he 
tugged  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  Wickham  had  locked.  It 
said  something  about  a  forgotten  overcoat  and  a  key  in  the 
pocket.  .  .  .  And  then,  Smith's  look  as  he  came  in  —  Smith 
who  had  brought  her  the  daffodils  from  his  garden,  who  had 
talked  to  her  of  his  wife  and  baby.  .  .  . 

It  was  Smith,  too,  who  laughed  when  she  went  running  down 
the  stairs.  .  .  .  She  knew  his  laugh  when  Wickham  made  a 
joke. 

6 

She  had  no  memories  at  all  of  what  came  after  until  she 
found  a  seat  (much  later)  on  the  Embankment  and  slipped  into 
it.  She  realised,  then,  that  her  head  ached  —  that  it  ached 
dreadfully,  so  that  she  had  to  take  off  her  hat  because  she  sim- 
ply couldn't  bear  it  on.  She  sat  there  watching  the  steady, 
stately  procession  of  tramcars  moving  on  across  Westminster 
Bridge.  In  front  of  her  a  river-sign  advertising  somebody's  tea 
and  another  advertising  somebody  else's  whisky,  tortured  her 
eye-sight.  She  wished  vaguely  that  they  might  go  out,  or  that 
the  hand  controlling  their  colour-mechanism,  for  just  once, 
would  blunder.  Red,  green,  red,  green  ...  as  though  there 
were  no  other  colours  in  the  world.  But  presently  even  the 
river-signs  failed  to  disturb  her.  She  was  so  glad  to  be  still,  so 
glad  to  sit  down.  ...  It  was  appalling  to  be  as  tired  as  this, 
not  to  care  whether  you  were  ever  going  to  be  sufficiently  rested 


SHADOW  123 

to  go  home  or  not.  Nothing  mattered,  or  at  least,  nothing 
would  matter  if  only  that  throbbing  pulse  in  her  temples  would 
slow  down  and  be  still.  And  when  it  did  she  would  get  up 
and  go  on. 

7 

Chance  plays  a  queer  game.  .  .  . 

Down  there  where  the  trams  pull  up  beneath  Waterloo  Bridge 
Hilary  Sargent  was  saying  good  night  to  a  friend.  At  a  swing- 
ing stride  he  came  along  presently  in  Helena's  direction,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head  thrown  back  and  up,  as  if  the 
sensation  of  the  evening  air  on  his  face  delighted  him.  So  still 
Helena  sat  it  was  almost  as  if  she  knew  he  must  come  —  as  if 
she  waited.  Yet  the  truth  was  that  she  did  not  know  —  that 
she  sat  there  thinking  of  just  nothing  at  all. 

A  queer  game.  But  sometimes,  if  you  are  clever  enough, 
you  can  follow  the  moves.  You  could  have  followed  them 
now.  Hilary  came  on  and  Helena  continued  to  sit  there,  very 
still,  for  all  the  world  as  though  she  awaited  him.  And  Chance 
chalked  her  trick  and  waited  too. 

The  next  trick  was  Hilary's.  He  paused  in  his  long  comfort- 
able stride  and  looked  across  at  that  quiet  figure  sitting  slightly 
huddled  on  a  public  seat  on  the  Embankment.  The  harsh 
glare  of  a  street  lamp  fell  full  upon  her  lowered  head,  turning 
her  hair  to  fire.  And  it  was  her  hair  which  pulled  Hilary  up. 
On  that  shadowed  thoroughfare  it  looked  like  something  glow- 
ing —  something  that  you  might  warm  your  hands  at.  No  one, 
least  of  all  Hilary  Sargent,  could  have  missed  it.  But  for  a 
moment  he  hesitated.  Even  with  Chance  playing  heavily  for 
you  there  are  things  which  seem  impossible.  This  for  Hilary 
was  one  of  them.  His  little  diffident  pause  seemed  to  suggest 
that  there  are  some  things,  too,  a  man  cannot  fight  against  for 
ever  —  that  Hilary,  at  least,  could  not  any  longer  fight  against 
this.  But  as  he  hesitated  she  looked  up  and  recognised  him. 
He  saw  the  colour  run  swiftly  up  into  her  face  and  she  smiled 
—  in  that  slow,  crooked  way  of  hers ;  the  way  he  remembered 
and  loved. 

"  It's  Fate,  isn't  it?  "  he  said,  sitting  down  at  her  side. 

She  shook  her  head  as  though  she  did  not  believe  in  Fate, 
but  she  said  nothing.  She  just  sat  there  with  the  ghost  of  her 


124  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

wistful  smile  turning  up  one  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  the  col- 
our creeping  like  a  tide  up  the  dead  whiteness  of  her  face. 
And  in  his  heart  he  called  her  —  as  he  always  had  called  her  — 
Deirdre,  Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows.  The  old  phrase  darted 
through  his  mind  like  the  flash  of  a  swallow's  wing  across  the 
blue  of  June,  but  he  wished  to-night  that  he  had  not  remem- 
bered it.  He  leaned  towards  her:  his  hand  just  touching  her 
coat  sleeve. 

"  I've  tried,  haven't  I,  to  avoid  you?  "  he  asked. 

"You've  always  tried,"  she  said. 

"I  know.  That's  why,  this  time,  you've  got  to  think  it's 
Fate.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  possibly  think  it's  anything 
else." 

She  seemed  to  consider  this.     The  faint  smile  came  again. 

"  Fate  didn't  rate  our  intelligences  very  high,  do  you  think, 
when  she  ordained  for  us  to  meet  at  that  idiotic  farce?  " 

"  Fate  couldn't  help  that.  She  can  only  work  with  the  ma- 
terials given  her.  What  took  you  to  the  farce,  anyway?  " 

She  laughed.     "  Jimmy,"  she  said. 

"  And  did  you  really  think  it  funny?  " 

"  Everything  was  funny  that  night,"  she  said,  "  and  we  were 
funnier  than  anything  else." 

They  became,  after  that,  quite  silent,  as  if  in  some  shy 
subtle  fashion  each  had  become  overwhelmingly  conscious  of 
the  nearness  of  the  other.  She  did  not  tell  him  of  the  obscene 
thing  which  had  happened  to  her,  of  her  hideous  realisation 
of  woman  as  a  creature  who  secures  immunity  from  unpleasant 
masculine  attentions  only  at  the  hands  of  some  other  masculine 
creature  with  a  horsewhip  in  his  hand,  or  by  the  knocking  out 
of  two  front  teeth,  which  seemed  to  amount  to  the  same  thing. 
It  was  as  though  she  realised  that  there  was  going  to  be  plenty 
of  time  for  them  to  tell  each  other  things  like  that.  But  now 
that  they  were  so  still  they  looked,  both  of  them,  a  little  weary. 
Their  intense  calm  stood  revealed  suddenly  for  the  precarious 
thing  it  was  —  the  calm  of  people  who  have  ceased  to  struggle, 
who,  for  just  this  once,  have  so  far  resigned  themselves  to  the 
tide  as  to  float  with  it,  and  who  have  not  realised  as  yet  that  the 
tide  may  be  stronger  than  they. 


BOOK  III 
STORM-WRACK 


CHAPTER  ONE 


INDIRECTLY    it    was    Hilary    who    found    Helena    new 
work.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  had  struck  him,  as  it  might  strike  most  people, 
that  Helena  in  an  office  was  rather  an  incongruity,  but  he  had 
no  use  at  all  for  the  idle  man  or  woman,  and  was  sufficiently 
dissatisfied  with  the  scheme  of  things  to  dislike  profoundly  the 
parasitic  woman  of  his  own  and  Helena's  class. 

The  memory  he  had  carried  of  her  in  that  big  modern  house 
on  the  moors  had  contradicted  for  him  continually  his  more 
intimate  reading  of  the  essential  woman  that  you  could  not, 
anyhow,  imprison  in  clothes  and  a  house.  Yet  Hilary  had 
stuck  to  it  obstinately  that  the  "  essential  woman  "  he  had 
discerned  across  that  stately  luncheon  table  did  really  exist, 
that  she  had  merely  strayed  into  this  world  of  solidity  and 
comfort  and,  for  the  present,  had  lost  her  way.  That  was  why 
on  that  first  evening  she  seemed  to  him  incomparably  finer  as 
she  sat  there  discussing  her  plans  with  him  —  discussing  them 
earnestly  but  quietly,  even,  he  felt  with  certain  reservations, 
for  neither  of  them  as  yet  dared  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  each 
other.  He  did  not  ask  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  when  Je- 
rome's American  tour  was  ended,  and  she  did  not  refer  to  it. 
That  was  one  of  the  "  reservations,"  and  to  them,  at  present, 
they  paid,  by  instinct,  a  common  unfaltering  respect. 

"  I'll  get  hold  of  Nelly  Kenyon,"  Hilary  said.  "  I'll  bring 
her  along  here  to  lunch  to-morrow.  You'll  like  Nelly:  every- 
one does.  And  if  she  knows  anybody  who  wants  an  amanuensis 
you  can  go  ahead  at  once." 

And,  as  it  happened,  Nelly  had  known  of  someone.  She 
knew  that  the  great  Alexander  Bletchington  (editor  of  that  pop- 
ular weekly,  the  Britisher)  had  been  recently  deprived  of  the 
services  of  a  really  excellent  phonographer  by  the  enchanter 
whose  wand  is  a  wedding-ring.  Mr.  Bletchington's  mortal 

127 


128  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

enemy,  you  gathered  from  Nelly,  was  matrimony,  and  at  the 
moment  it  had  left  him  in  direst  need  of  a  shorthand-writer 
who  was  reliable  and  discreet.  Above  all,  discreet.  Miss  Ken- 
yon  looked  at  Helena,  laughed  a  little  and  said,  "  I  should 
think  you  would  suit  Alexander  —  admirably." 

The  little  pause  before  the  adverb  was  eloquent.  Helena 
blushed  and  began  to  protest  —  a  trifle  feebly.  She  did  not 
want,  she  said,  to  suit  Mr.  Bletchington  —  like  that. 

Nelly  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  don't  worry,"  she  said.  "  It's 
quite  true  most  of  the  women  Alexander  Bletchington  meets 
seem  to  fall  flat  at  his  feet  or  hang  themselves  about  his  neck. 
But  when  he  does  meet  one  who  manages  to  preserve  the  per- 
pendicular he  appreciates  her  quite  hugely.  You  see,  my  dear, 
she  usually  writes  better  shorthand." 

So  the  next  morning  Helena  presented  herself  at  the  offices 
of  the  Britisher,  only  to  learn  that  its  editor  had  not  yet  arrived. 
She  gathered  from  the  extremely  polite  and  energetic  young 
man  who  interviewed  her  that  you  stood  as  good  a  chance  of 
getting  a  quiet  five  minutes  with  the  Archangel  Gabriel  as  you 
did  of  seeing  Mr.  Bletchington  without  an  appointment.  The 
polite  young  man,  however,  was  acquainted  with  Nelly  Kenyon: 
he  gave  Helena  a  test,  congratulated  her  upon  her  shorthand 
and  engaged  her  services  on  Mr.  Bletchington's  behalf  all  well 
within  the  space  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"I'm  a  Pitmanite  myself,"  he  told  Helena.  "  So's  Mr. 
Bletchington.  Doesn't  use  it  much,  now,  of  course.  Ah-h  .  .  . 
ever  met  Mr.  Bletchington?  P'raps  you've  heard  him  speak 
in  public?  " 

But  Helena  had  not,  and  she  felt  from  the  young  man's 
manner  that  it  was  a  reflection  upon  her  whole  existence  — 
that  she  had  not  heard  Mr.  Bletchington  speak  in  public. 

*'  Fine  speaker  —  born  orator,  born.  .  .  .  You  must  hear 
him.  Holds  his  audience  spellbound.  Ought  to  sit  in  Parlia- 
ment. Make  'em  sit  up.  .  .  .  'Strordnary  man  —  'strordnary. 
Ah-h.  .  .  .Come  along  on  Tuesday,  can  you?  Monday's  press 
day.  Better  start  Tuesday,  eh?  " 

They  shook  hands  cordially  and  cordially  this  affable  young 
man  bowed  her  out.  And  on  the  Tuesday  morning  following 
he  ushered  her  into  a  long,  well-furnished  apartment  with  a 
desk  at  the  far  end  before  which  sat  a  short  stout  man  in  a  dark- 


STORM-WRACK  129 

grey  suit  doing  three  things  at  once  —  talking  to  a  tall  flaxen 
man  at  his  elbow,  reading  a  letter  held  up  well  before  his  eyes, 
and  carrying  on  a  spasmodic  conversation  with  someone  on  the 
telephone.  Helena  and  the  affable  young  man,  whose  name  she 
had  discovered  was  Vane  (V-A-N-E.  He  had  spelt  it  carefully, 
as  though  people  usually  got  it  wrong  and  it  annoyed  him), 
came  to  a  simultaneous  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  carpet  until 
the  flaxen  man  disappeared,  the  telephone  receiver  snapped 
back  into  position  and  the  little  fat  man  at  the  desk  looked  up. 
As  that  appeared  to  be  the  signal  for  a  general  advance,  Helena 
and  Mr.  Vane  walked  up  to  the  desk,  and  Mr.  Vane  began  to 
explain. 

And  Alexander  Bletchington  said,  "  Good  morning,  my  dear. 
Come  and  sit  down  beside  me." 

Helena  sat  down  —  opposite,  not  beside,  Mr.  Bletchington, 
and  she  tried  not  to  notice  the  term  of  endearment.  Mr.  Bletch- 
ington's  desk  was  literally  covered  with  papers:  they  sur- 
rounded him,  hemmed  him  in,  looked  as  if  at  any  moment  they 
might  arise  and  smother  him.  Mr.  Vane,  rather  red  about  the 
face,  but  as  urbane  as  ever,  was  explaining  at  great  pains  the 
respective  claims  to  attention  of  the  various  piles. 

"  This,  sir,  is  copy  —  a  good  deal  of  it  marked  '  Must.'  You 
won't  forget  to  let  Saunders  have  the  apology  par.  we  prom- 
ised that  clothing  firm?  That's  important.  Masters  has  sent 
in  his  page  3  article,  but  we  want  some  more  '  Quips  and 
Queries '  pars.  I've  had  the  papers  in  the  Latimer  case  looked 
up.  These  are  they,  sir  —  here  on  your  right.  Those  people 
at  Leyton  threaten  an  action.  Bluff,  of  course:  they  haven't  an 
earthly.  .  .  .  Our  par.  was  fair  comment.  I'll  have  the  docu- 
ments looked  up  for  you.  Ah-h.  .  .  .  P'raps  you  wouldn't 
mind,  Mrs.  Courtney?  Just  a  note  Memo  to  Page.  Please 
let  Mr.  Bletchington  have  at  once  all  the  papers  in  connection 
with  our  article  '  Lingering  Long  at  Leyton,'  in  last  week's 
issue.  Type  my  initials  on  it  and  put  it  on  Page's  desk  outside. 
Anybody  will  show  you.  And  underline  '  at  once.'  That's  im- 
portant." 

"That  all,  Vane?  "  Mr.  Bletchington  asked.  "  Well,  give 
me  just  five  minutes,  will  you,  there's  a  good  chap.  And,  Vane 
-  I'm  not  supposed  to  be  here.  No  matter  who  it  is,  I'm  not 
here." 


130  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"Ah-h  .  .  .  very  good,"  said  Vane,  and  went  out. 

Mr.  Bletchington  went  back  to  his  letters.  Getting  tired 
of  reading  over  her  note  of  Mr.  Vane's  "memo,  to  Page," 
Helena's  eyes  wandered  casually  round  the  room  that  seemed 
in  strange  contrast  with  its  owner  who  sat  turning  over  his 
correspondence  with  a  rather  weary  gesture  —  as  though  it  was 
some  sort  of  pudding  that  had  to  be  stirred  though  his  arm 
ached.  In  this  atmosphere  of  work  the  settee  of  dark-green 
leather  had  an  appearance  of  oddity,  even  though  it  was  pushed 
right  back  against  the  wall  and  had  been  made  a  temporary  re- 
ceptacle for  the  Post  Office  Directory  and  other  official-looking 
volumes.  Even  the  two  arm-chairs  that  matched  it,  and  the 
third  that  didn't,  were  so  deep  and  capacious  that  it  was  almost 
as  if  they  gaped  with  the  boredom  of  their  own  untroubled, 
incongruous  existence.  None  of  them  even  looked  as  though 
they  ever  expected  to  be  sat  on,  as  though  they  quite  understood 
that  they  were  there  not  for  use  but  for  the  look  of  the  thing. 
Only  the  table  that  ran  down  the  centre  of  the  room  seemed 
to  belong  to  it.  Two  rows  of  chairs  were  pushed  up  in  friendly 
fashion  closely  against  its  sides,  and  ink-bottles  and  pen-trays 
set  out  at  regular  distances  upon  its  highly  polished  surface. 
It  stood  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  its  own  importance,  breath- 
ing forth  an  odour  of  Committees  and  Board  Meetings,  a  posi- 
tive old  dog  of  a  table  that  could  have  told  you  more  than  a 
thing  or  two  about  human  nature  and  its  weaknesses.  Facing 
Helena,  on  Mr.  Bletchington's  mantelpiece,  was  a  framed  repro- 
duction of  the  Britisher's  well-known  cover,  two  cartoons  (also 
framed)  that  were  tantalising  because  she  could  not  get  near 
enough  to  see  what  they  were  about,  and  a  coloured  print  of 
Napoleon's  apothegm,  Good  God,  how  rare  men  are!  But  that, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  nearly  made  her  laugh.  She  wished 
Mr.  Bletchington  would  begin.  He  sat  there  frowning  over  his 
letters,  every  now  and  then  transferring  to  his  waistcoat  pocket 
the  stamp  which  some  of  his  correspondents,  in  the  hope  of  a 
reply,  had  thoughtfully  affixed  to  their  communications.  The 
action,  though  mechanical,  was  careful  —  carried  through  with 
a  nice  precision  of  first  finger  and  thumb  very  fascinating  to 
watch.  The  minutes  passed  and  just  as  she  was  beginning  to 
gape  with  the  furniture  Mr.  Bletchington  plunged  suddenly 
into  the  heart  of  his  dictation. 


STORM-WRACK  131 

His  voice  was  surprisingly  low  and  musical.  For  the  most 
part  he  knew  what  he  wanted  to  say  and  said  it  with  the  min- 
imum of  words.  He  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  need  of  walking 
about  and  kicking  down  the  fire-arms,  as  Helena's  solicitor-em- 
ployer had  been  apt  to  do,  nor  grow  irritable  as  had  Mr.  Smith 
over  the  incorrigible  elusiveness  of  the  English  language.  Mr. 
Bletchington  went  straight  ahead,  his  mind  very  plainly  on  the 
business  in  hand,  and  even  when  he  interrupted  himself  to  say, 
"  I  hope  I  don't  go  too  fast  for  you,  my  dear,"  it  was  not  in 
the  least  as  Rupert  Wickham  had  been  used  to  ask  the  same 
thing.  To  Mr.  Bletchington,  at  the  moment,  Helena  was  just  a 
machine,  into  which  he  might  pour  his  thoughts,  in  the  sure 
and  certain  hope  that  she  would  presently  pour  them  out  again, 
quite  neatly  and  correctly,  for  him  to  sign.  Every  now  and 
then,  however,  he  coughed  candidly  across  the  table  or  vehe- 
mently cleared  his  throat  —  mannerisms  which  Helena  found 
almost  as  trying  as  the  perambulations  of  the  solicitor  or  the 
pleasantries  of  Rupert  Wickham. 

The  dictation  went  on  for  close  upon  an  hour,  and  when  it 
ended  Mr.  Bletchington  looked  at  Helena  with  fatherly  solici- 
tude over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles,  as  though  he  hoped  it  had 
in  no  way  inconvenienced  her.  He  was  a  fat,  tubby  little  man, 
with  thin  hair,  just  touched  with  grey,  which  he  had  ruffled 
during  the  tussle  with  his  overwhelming  mass  of  correspond- 
ence. His  face  was  pale,  clean-shaven  and  coarse-skinned ;  his 
mouth,  for  all  its  downward  droop,  managed  in  some  queer 
fashion  to  suggest  good-nature  and  an  equable  temper  (he  had 
both,  Helena  discovered  later)  but  the  name  of  his  chins  was 
legion. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Helena,  and  his  eyes 
searched  her  face.  But  they  learned  nothing  from  that  except 
—  as  others  had  done  —  that  Helena  looked  charming  when  she 
blushed.  Mr.  Bletchington  was  hardly  the  man  to  miss  a  fact 
of  that  sort. 

"What  a  business-like  little  person  you  are,  my  dear!  "  he 
said  to  her,  as  she  collected  her  papers  and  prepared  to  depart. 
(Nobody  but  Mr.  Bletchington  would  have  called  Helena  "  lit- 
tle.") "  But  I  am  here  to  be  business-like,"  she  said,  and  Mr. 
Bletchington  smiled.  "  So  you  are,  my  dear,  so  you  are. 
Send  Vane  in  to  me,  there's  a  good  girl." 


132  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

He  really  couldn't  help  it:  it  was  constitutionally  impossible 
for  him  to  address  a  woman  without  some  term  of  endearment. 
In  time  Helena  got  used  to  it,  because  his  attitude  remained 
exactly  what  it  was  that  first  day  —  benevolent,  fatherly,  oddly 
familiar  and  yet  always  kindly  and  considerate.  She  was  never 
able  to  dislike  him,  though  (hating  all  he  stood  for)  she  tried 
later  on  more  than  once.  There,  he  was  like  Helena  herself: 
in  some  subtle  fashion  he  disarmed  you,  robbed  you  of  your 
hostility.  Though  you  might  hate  the  things  he  did,  the  things 
he  said,  the  things  he  was  always  going  to  do  and  to  say,  you 
couldn't  hate  him.  , 


It  was  ten  days  after  Helena's  initiation  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  Britisher  post  that  she  heard  of  Jerome's  motor  accident. 

That  she  heard  it  even  now,  at  this  belated  hour,  she  owed  to 
Jerome's  sister,  Angela  Richardson-Courtney,  who,  on  a  visit 
to  town  had  called  at  Cowdray  House  and  had  been  sent  on  to 
Guilford  Street.  Helena  found  her  waiting  when  she  came  in 
from  the  office  (late,  because  she  had  been  having  tea  with 
Hilary).  Scented  and  powdered,  in  her  elegant  clothes,  there 
was  about  Angela  an  almost  overpowering  sense  of  incongruity. 
She  was  like  an  orchid  blooming  in  a  vegetable  garden.  More- 
over she  was  very  bored  with  Helena's  room.  Nothing  in  it 
interested  her :  not  the  books,  not  the  pictures  certainly,  for  she 
disliked  Rossetti's  women  and  thought  Burne-Jones's  insipid, 
besides  being  scraggy  and  anaemic.  Also,  she  was  at  the  dis- 
advantage of  not  knowing  what  they  meant  —  if  they  meant 
anything,  which  she  doubted.  She  understood  the  Greiffen- 
hagen  better,  but  wondered  why  Helena,  of  all  people,  should 
have  it.  It  surprised  her  as  Helena's  poetry-reading  had,  years 
ago,  surprised  her  mother. 

Afterwards  Helena  wondered  if  Angela's  visit  was  dictated 
by  curiosity  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Guilford  Street  and  what 
it  was  like  (after  all,  one  had  heard  of  Bloomsbury  Square)  or 
whether  she  really  did  think  it  was  time  Helena  heard  of  that 
two-months-old  accident  of  Jerome's.  At  any  rate,  she  was  in 
no  hurry  to  impart  her  information,  but  listened  quite  calmly 
to  Helena's  account  (which  could  no  longer  be  avoided)  of  her 


STORM-WRACK  133 

incursion  into  the  ranks  of  business  women.  Even  when  Hel- 
ena got  as  far  as  Mr.  Bletchington  Angela  did  not  scream, 
though  everything  about  her  stiffened  —  even  her  finely  pen- 
cilled eyebrows.  Helena  could  stand  that,  although  she  did 
wonder  how  Angela  did  it.  Neither  did  she  mind  what  Angela 
had  to  say,  vaguely,  about  "  morals,"  because  she  knew  that 
when  Angela  applied  the  word  "  morals  "  to  men  she  meant 
"  women,"  and  when  she  applied  it  to  women  she  meant 
"  men."  Angela  was  like  that,  so  that  "  morals  "  became  a 
dull  subject,  because  Helena  wasn't.  .  .  . 

It  was  right  at  the  end  of  these  things  that  Angela  had  shot 
her  bolt.  "  You  know,  of  course,"  she  said,  "  that  they  won't 
let  Jerome  come  back  at  the  end  of  May?  " 


When  Angela  had  finished  the  tale  of  the  accident  (which 
included  details  about  the  egregious  Fownes  who,  of  course, 
had  escaped  without  a  scratch,  and  details  about  Jerome's 
insistence  that  she  was  not  to  be  told)  Helena  was  frightened. 
Not  for  herself  but  for  Jerome.  It  was  outrageous,  somehow, 
that  she  didn't  care  more  —  that  her  chief  sensation  should  be 
one  of  irritation  because  Jerome  had  kept  her  in  the  dark  — 
treated  her  like  a  child  who  must  be  shielded,  saved  from  the 
truth.  She  ought  to  care  —  more  and  differently  —  because 
Jerome  might  have  been  killed.  Something  wild  and  scared 
rose  up  in  her  at  the  thought,  something  ugly  and  ghastly  that 
had  to  be  slain,  there  on  the  instant,  before  she  could  listen, 
properly,  to  what  Angela  was  saying.  She  felt  cold,  as  though 
the  wind  had  shifted  suddenly  to  the  east. 

Later,  when  Angela  had  gone  the  thought  stayed.  It  was 
still  there  when  Mrs.  Rogers  brought  in  her  dinner,  and  it  had 
not  gone  when  Evey  arrived,  looking  like  some  gorgeous  trop- 
ical flower  and  infinitely  reproachful. 

"  I  came  up  twice  last  week  and  both  times  you  were  out," 
she  said. 

Helena  did  not  look  at  her. 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear.  You  chose  the  wrong  evenings.  I  went 
to  the  theatre." 


134  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Then  I  think  you  might  have  asked  me." 

"  I  went  with  a  friend." 

"  With  the  same  friend  both  times?     In  one  week?  " 

**  I'm  afraid  so,  Evey,  dear." 

"  I'm  jealous." 

"  Dear,  there's  no  need." 

"  Male  or  female?  " 

Helena  was  suddenly  absorbed  in  her  dinner. 

"  Male !  "  said  Evey,  watching  the  colour  come  up  into 
Helena's  cheeks.  "You're  not  going  to  keep  it  up,  are  you, 
Lena?  " 

"Keep  what  up?" 

"  I  mean,  there  isn't  always  going  to  be  someone  else  now, 
like  this,  is  there?  Will  you  come  to  Richmond  with  me  on 
Saturday?  " 

"  I've  promised  to  lunch  with  my  sister-in-law." 

"  Oh  ...  I  forgot.  I  have  to  reckon  with  these  grand 
relations  of  yours,  have  I,  as  well?  " 

** Relations-in-law,"  Helena  said.  "They  don't  count,  do 
they?  " 

"  If  they  are  as  grand  as  all  that  they  do.  But  even  at  the 
Ritz  or  the  Carlton  —  or  wherever  you're  going  —  you  don't 
take  quite  all  the  afternoon  over  your  lunch,  do  you?  Can't 
you  manage  tea  somewhere,  Lena?  " 

Helena  hesitated. 

"All  right,"  said  Evey.  "I  understand.  That's  booked, 
too." 

Her  eyes  were  on  Helena's  face.  She  had  never  seen 
Helena  with  this  rare  glow  about  her.  "What  have  you  done 
to  yourself?  "  she  asked.  "  You  look  —  I  don't  know  how  to 
put  it  —  as  if  someone  had  lighted  you  up  inside." 

Helena  laughed,  a  little  uneasily.  "  It's  because  I'm  hot," 
she  said.  "  I  walked  down  from  the  office  and  the  sun  was  in 
my  face  the  whole  way." 

Evey  said,  "  Rubbish.  That  isn't  the  reason.  You  don't 
look  hot.  If  I  can't  have  Saturday  will  you  come  for  a  walk 
with  me  this  evening?  " 

The  examinations  were  over.  It  would  not  be  Pitman  who 
would  monopolise  the  sweet  summer  evenings  as  he  had  monop- 
olised those  of  the  spring.  .  .  . 


STORM-WRACK  135 

"  Of  course.     I'd  love  a  walk." 

"  Then  hurry  up  and  finish  eating,"  Evey  said.  "  It's  after 
seven  already."  She  got  up  and  came  round  to  the  back  of 
Helena's  chair.  "And  you'll  tell  me,  won't  you,  all  about 
this  horrid  male  creature  who's  come  between  us?  " 

"  He  hasn't  come  between  us,  Evey.  No  one  will  ever  do 
that." 

"Of  course  he  has.  Don't  try  to  be  nice  about  it,  Lena. 
There  are  two  male  creatures  in  the  way  —  the  new  one  and 
your  husband.  Only  he,  somehow,  hasn't  mattered.  But  I'm 
not  a  vampire.  I  know  I  can't  have  you  altogether  to  myself, 
however  much  I  might  like  it." 

"  Evey,  you're  rather  a  dear." 

"  I  know,"  said  Evey.  "  Who  is  he,  this  horrid  male?  Do 
tell  me  all  about  him." 

"  Really,  dear,  there's  nothing  to  tell.  It's  someone  I  knew 
in  Yorkshire  a  long  time  ago.  I  met  him  recently  quite  acci- 
dentally here  in  London." 

"  But  there  must  be  a  lot  more  than  that." 

"  There  isn't,  really." 

She  meant  there  was  nothing  to  tell  —  nothing  she  could 
possibly  tell.  Evey  shrugged  her  shoulders,  moved  away  and 
began  to  dip  into  Helena's  books.  She  came  first  of  all  upon 
the  little  pile  Mrs.  Rogers  had  cleared  from  the  table  when 
she  brought  in  Helena's  dinner.  They  had  bored  Angela  an 
hour  ago  to  distraction.  Even  Evey  wrinkled  her  brows  at 
them:  Women  in  Political  Evolution  by  Joseph  McCabe,  The 
Origins  of  Religion  by  Andrew  Lang,  and  two  others  by  a  man 
neither  Evey  nor  Angela  had  heard  of  before.  They  were 
Morocco  in  Diplomacy  and  Red  Rubber  by  E.  D.  Morel.  It 
was  these  that  Evey  held  up  to  Helena. 

"  I  say  .  .  .  whoever  put  you  on  to  these?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
didn't  know  you  went  in  for  politics." 

"  Why  not?  "  Helena  said,  "  don't  we  want  a  vote?  " 

But  Evey's  eyes  were  sharper  than  Angela's  and  she  saw  what 
that  lady  had  missed.  Inside  the  cover  of  each  of  the  vol- 
umes, in  the  top  left-hand  corner,  was  a  name  written  in  correct 
but  untidy  shorthand,  and  Evey,  of  course,  could  read  short- 
hand. She  read  this  signa*ure  quite  easily.  It  was  "  Hilary 
Sturge  Sargent." 


136  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  I  like  your  friend's  name,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder  to 
Helena,  "  but  he  doesn't  write  very  good  shorthand,  does  he?  " 


That  was  on  the  Thursday.  On  the  Saturday  following 
Helena  went  to  Richmond  with  Hilary.  That  was  why  she 
couldn't  meet  Evey,  as  Evey,  of  course,  had  guessed.  The 
lunch  with  Angela  did  not  count.  .  .  . 

Hilary  was  waiting  when  Helena  reached  the  Bureau  de 
Change  at  Charing  Cross,  although  she  had  left  Angela  in  her 
Metropole  splendour  in  such  good  time  that  she  arrived  wholly 
five  minutes  before  the  appointed  hour.  Her  heart,  when  she 
saw  him,  gave  a  great  bound,  because  everything  about  him  — 
not  merely  his  face  —  seemed  to  express  his  joy  in  the  sight  of 
her.  All  the  world  could  see,  and  all  the  world  must  not.  .  .  . 
They  waited  in  a  delicious,  delicate  excitement  for  a  33  'bus, 
and  when  it  came,  rode  on  the  top  front  seat  all  the  way  to 
Richmond. 

The  world  that  afternoon  seemed  very  young  and  fresh,  its 
blue  and  green  splashed  into  delicate  beauty  by  the  mauve  of 
lilac  and  the  pale  gold  of  laburnum.  In  the  London  parks  the 
children  were  playing:  from  the  flower-sellers'  baskets  in  the 
streets  below  narcissi  and  daffodils  urged  you  to  buy  them  be- 
cause they  would  soon  be  gone,  an  appeal  charged  heavily  with 
the  tender  sadness  that  is  the  note  of  all  beautiful  things  that 
cannot  stay.  Overhead  white  clouds  drifted  idly  across  a  sky 
of  azure,  towards  which  the  London  trees  stretched  eager  arms 
—  like  Pagan  priests  at  their  invocations.  In  the  old  gardens 
at  Richmond  the  red  and  white  of  the  fruit  trees  dotted  all  the 
land:  across  the  broad  sweep  of  the  park  the  warm  breezes 
raced  and  the  cuckoo  went  calling. 

It  was  of  these  things  Helena  thought  when  the  day  was 
done.  And  of  one  thing  else  —  that  Hilary  had  called  her 
Deirdre  and  that  she  had  rebuked  him  because  Deirdre  had 
brought  sorrow  to  all  the  people  she  loved.  That  was  the 
phrase  she  used  because  that  was  how  she  thought  of  it, 
but  when  it  was  out  she  had  blushed  because  of  the  terrible 
sweetness  of  the  word,  because  of  the  look  on  Hilary's  face  and 
because  of  the  terrible  sweetness  of  that.  .  .  , 


STORM-WRACK  137 

It  was  a  perfectly  glorious  afternoon,  so  glorious  that  they 
must  not,  they  decided,  have  another  like  it.  That  was  the 
thought  that  occurred  to  both  of  them,  and  though  every  now 
and  then  it  twisted  about,  changed  its  form  or  clothed  itself 
differently,  it  remained  substantially  the  same  thought.  But  for 
all  that  Hilary  went  home  to  his  Saturday  evening  gathering  of 
friends  (who  came  whether  or  not  he  was  there  to  receive  them) 
feeling  hot  and  bitter  and  resentful,  and,  right  at  the  end,  very 
tired  and  flat.  Standing  there  on  his  doorstep,  fitting  his  key  in 
the  lock,  he  wanted  Helena  so  badly  that  he  wondered  in  a  sort 
of  shivering  apprehension  how  he  was  going  to  exist  without 
her.  The  front  door  closed  with  a  bang  behind  him,  and  a  min- 
ute later  his  Crowd  absorbed  him,  just  when  the  Crowd  had 
given  him  up. 

In  Guilford  Street  Helena,  too,  was  feeling  tired  and  flat, 
and  was  glad  when  the  postman  came  and  brought  her  a  letter, 
though  it  was  from  Lucy  and  was  not  in  the  very  least  interest- 
ing. It  reproached  Helena  for  not  having  been  to  Putney  for 
so  long  and  suggested  tea  on  the  morrow.  And  Helena,  who 
was  tired  of  that  twisting,  stabbing  thought,  decided  that  she 
would  go,  because  in  that  sugary  little  house  at  Putney  there 
would  be  no  room  for  the  thought  and  no  room,  either,  for 
Hilary  Sargent.  She  smiled  at  that  —  a  smile  that  began 
bravely  and  twisted  awry  midway  —  and  tearing  Lucy's  letter 
across,  she  threw  it  suddenly  on  to  the  fire.  Lucy  wrote  the 
kind  of  letters  you  could  do  that  with.  They  had  no  soul.  It 
didn't  hurt  you,  somehow,  to  watch  them  burn. 


At  Putney,  however,  Helena  had  something  more  than  tea. 
She  had  a  brief  vision  of  the  strength  of  the  conventions  she 
and  Hilary  had  defied  for  a  fortnight  between  them  and  a  long 
sermon  from  her  brother-in-law  who,  with  Lucy,  had  been  at 
Richmond  the  previous  afternoon  and  had  seen  them  together. 
John  had  been  very  trying  at  supper  in  his  assumptions,  de- 
ductions and  platitudes,  but  Lucy  had  tried  hard,  beneath 
John's  eagle  eye,  to  be  as  broad-minded  as  possible  about 
things. 

"I  thought  your  friend  very  nice-looking  yesterday,"  she 


138  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

said  to  Helena,  who  was  pleased  because  she  could  laugh  at 
Lucy's  way  of  putting  it.  "  Oh,  you  needn't  limit  it  to  yester- 
day," she  said,  "  he  usually  looks  rather  like  that,  you  know." 
But  while  John  talked  and  Lucy  tried  to  tone  down  what  he 
said,  Helena  realised  that,  at  bottom,  she  did  not  care  in  the 
least  what  John  or  Lucy  or  anybody  else  thought  or  said  of 
her.  Nothing  like  that  would  influence  her  when  the  time 
came.  And  perhaps  it  would  come.  .  .  . 

It  was  of  quite  other  things  she  thought  on  the  way  home 
up  there  on  the  top  of  her  'bus  —  of  Lucy's  tired  face  and  fad- 
ing prettiness  (Lucy,  who  was  not  yet  twenty-two ! ) ;  of  her 
continual  efforts  to  keep  the  children  from  disturbing  their 
father,  and  of  John  himself  —  and  his  fiddling  complaints  at 
supper  about  things  that  didn't  matter  in  the  least.  .  .  .  Some- 
how, a  little  vinegar  was  getting  mixed  with  the  sugar  of  that 
little  Putney  household,  and  Helena  liked  it  even  less  that  way. 
Marriage  did  not  give  people  beauty  or  understanding,  and  she 
felt  it  ought  —  that  the  best  sort  of  marriage  did.  And  Helena 
sighed,  because  the  night  was  large  and  peaceful  and  people's 
lives  were  narrow  and  circumspect,  a  little  mean  and  ugly.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  TWO 


NOT  once  during  the  ensuing  week  did  Helena  and  Hilary 
meet:  nor  did  they  write.     It  was  as  though  that  per- 
sistent thought  of  Saturday  had  dropped  between  them 
like  a  curtain.     But  Helena,  at  least,  went  serenely  on  her  way, 
vaguely  pleased  at  her  own  inward  calm,  as  though  she  knew 
that  presently  the  curtain  would  lift. 

Meantime,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  there  was  a  slack 
time  at  the  Britisher  office,  for  Mr.  Bletchington  was  swept  from 
one  race-course  to  another  by  the  impetus  of  the  Spring  Races. 
Mr.  Bletchington  was  a  "sportsman":  the  man  in  the  street 
said  of  him  that  he  loved  the  "  gee-gees,"  and  applauded  him  to 
the  echo  when  he  asserted  that  every  man  ought  to  be  allowed 
his  bottle  of  Bass  and  his  shilling  on  a  horse.  That  was  a 
"  stunt  "  which  accounted  as  Helena  speedily  realised,  for  a 
good  third  of  the  Britisher's  circulation.  The  Englishman  is  a 
liberty-loving  creature,  and  this,  certainly,  was  a  declaration 
that  sounded  perilously  like  liberty.  Mr.  Bletchington  was  out 
to  let  the  working-man  have  his  innocent  amusement  because 
it  was  easy  and  cost  him  personally  just  nothing  at  all.  And 
even  if  the  man  in  the  street  lost  his  shilling  (which,  maybe, 
he  could  ill  afford  to  do)  still  he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr. 
Bletchington  in  the  Grand  Stand,  talking  to  a  lot  of  people 
more  or  less  in  the  public  eye,  and  he  had  the  gratification  of 
saying  to  the  man  with  whom  he  rubbed  shoulders,  "  Do  you 
know  who  that  is?  That's  Bletchington.  He's  a  jolly  good 
fellow,  he  is.  Clever  chap,  too.  Ought  to  be  Prime  Minister 
of  England." 

A  new  note  crept  into  the  Britisher  post  during  that  week  of 
the  Spring  Races,  and  on  Mr.  Bletchington's  return  Helena  pre- 
sented him  with  two  neat  piles  of  letters  which  dealt  exclusively 
with  the  races:  and  he  had  looked  at  her  rather  whimsically 
over  the  top  of  his  spectacles  as  she  explained. 

139 


140  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Here  are  fifty-nine  letters  from  people  who  recognised  you 
at  Manchester  yesterday,  Mr.  Bletchington,  and  these  are  from 
sixty-one  people  who  think  your  horse  should  have  won." 

And  Mr.  Bletchington  said,  "  So  it  ought.  Did  they  back 
it?" 

"  Yes  —  that's  why  they've  written." 

Mr.  Bletchington  took  a  short  way  with  the  fifty-nine  and  the 
sixty-one.  He  lumped  them  together  and  replied  to  them 
brightly  in  the  Correspondence  Columns.  "  F.A.B.,  C.E.V., 
and  over  a  hundred  others,  etc.,  etc."  Helena  typed  the  para- 
graph and  marked  it  "  Must,"  which  meant  that  on  no  account 
must  the  printer  crowd  it  out  and  deprive  the  hundred  and 
twenty  men  in  the  street  of  the  reward  of  their  zeal. 

That  type  of  letter  Helena  found  amusing:  but  certainly  that 
was  not  the  word  to  apply  to  the  bulk  of  the  correspondence 
which  found  its  way  to  the  Britisher  office.  Mr.  Bletchington's 
editorial  post  revealed,  day  by  day,  to  Helena  not  a  little  of  the 
sordid  side  of  life.  In  a  very  definite  way  it  educated  her,  just 
as  those  three  weeks  in  the  lawyer's  office  had  done:  confirmed 
her  impression  that  for  all  its  surface  jollity  and  beauty,  life, 
deep  down,  for  thousands  upon  thousands  of  people  was  a 
hideous  business  that  you  simply  dare  not  think  too  much 
about.  What  they  all  wanted,  what  they  all  asked  for,  was  "  re- 
lief." Not  justice:  not  what  the  world  owed  them:  not  what 
they  should  have  claimed,  boldly,  as  their  birthright.  For  the 
poor  do  not  fight;  they  are  too  occupied  in  eking  out  a  miser- 
able existence,  in  making  "  both  ends  meet,"  in  keeping  body 
and  soul  together.  They  hold  out  their  hands  for  the  world's 
"  leavings  " —  for  some  scrap  of  its  superfluous  cash  —  and  are 
quiet  again  if  they  get  it. 

Not  all  the  Britisher's  correspondents,  however,  wrote  from 
the  pit.  Some  sat  precariously  on  the  edge;  some  had  never 
been  in  it,  and  some  seemed  not  to  know  there  was  any  pit  at  all. 
Helena's  mind,  when  for  two  hours  each  morning  she  sat  read- 
ing Mr.  Bletchington's  editorial  post,  was  capable  of  two  emo- 
tions only  —  the  one  pity,  the  other  contempt.  Pity  for  the 
wretched  and  contempt  for  a  world  which  suffered  them,  which 
scarcely  knew  they  existed,  which  held  that  poverty  was  a 
crime,  an  unpleasant  thing  it  was  determined  at  all  cost  not 
to  think  about. 


STORM-WRACK  141 

Mr.  Bletchington's  correspondence  revealed  one  thing  else  — 
the  way  the  writers  of  it  regarded  Mr.  Bletchington  himself. 
In  the  public  mind  he  stood  for  the  typical  Englishman,  and 
Helena  wondered  why,  because  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
typical  not  so  much  of  Englishmen  as  of  most  men  (and  a  good 
many  women)  everywhere.  He  stood  for  "  things  as  they  are," 
with  as  many  modern  improvements  as  could  be  managed  with- 
out inconvenience  to  the  men  in  possession.  The  public  saw 
him  as  a  plain  man  with  plain  views,  bluff,  hearty,  good-natured 
and  anti-Puritanic  (useful  word!).  How  far  the  public  was 
right  and  how  far  it  was  wrong  in  its  estimate  Helena  had  little 
chance  of  judging,  but  she  was  not  disposed  to  be  grateful  to 
anybody  who  was  assured  (and  who  assured  others)  that  the 
world  was  by  no  means  a  bad  place,  and  that  if  it  were  altered 
here  and  altered  there  quite  a  good  deal  might  be  done  with  it. 
Because  Helena  didn't  believe  it  could  be  altered  —  except 
radically,  from  the  bottom  upwards.  She  had  said  so  once  to 
Jerome,  driving  at  his  side  through  a  maze  of  mean  streets,  and 
Jerome  had  laughed,  patting  her  hand.  "  Don't  you  worry 
your  pretty  head,"  he  had  said. 

"  But  we  ought  to  worry.  We  ought  to  worry  horribly.  If 
we  worried  enough  —  if  everyone  of  us  in  our  nice  houses  wor- 
ried, we  could  do  something." 

"  We  do  '  do  '  something.  Some  new  patch  goes  on  the  sys- 
tem every  day  of  our  lives." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  can  patch  it  up.  It's  got  to  be  pulled 
down.  We've  got  to  start  again  —  and  differently." 

It  sounded  feeble:  she  knew  that  before  Jerome  patted  her 
hand  again  and  changed  the  subject.  And  probably  it  was 
feeble,  but  she  had  gone  on  believing  it.  She  believed  it  now, 
with  Mr.  Bletchington  saying  the  exact  opposite  week  after 
week  and  week  after  week. 

But  for  his  "  bluffness  "  and  heartiness,  Alexander  Bletching- 
ton, so  Helena  thought,  was  steeped  in  sentimentalism.  In  his 
way  he  was  as  sticky  as  that  little  house  in  Putney,  or  as  the 
little  house  in  Putney  had  been.  Sentimentalism  smudged 
every  article  he  wrote;  it  trickled  out  from  the  page  on  to  the 
fingers  of  the  reader,  and  you  wondered  why  the  pen  that  wrote 
it  did  not  stick  to  the  paper.  And  his  public  loved  him  for  it. 
Young  girls  wrote  for  his  autograph,  for  his  portrait  to  hang 


142  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

over  their  beds  (they  put  it  like  that,  most  of  them),  and  to 
Helena's  eternal  amusement  one  young  woman  writing  from  the 
Midlands  addressed  him  as  "  My  Hero."  (You  felt  he  really 
was!)  Not  only  the  working  man  and  the  artisan  and  little 
clerk,  but  men  of  wide  education  and  experience  —  doctors, 
clergymen,  writers,  professional  men  and  women  of  all  sorts  — 
wrote  for  his  opinion  on  a  variety  of  subjects  and  subscribed 
to  the  companies  he  floated.  But  for  Helena  he  remained  a 
"  little  "  man  —  insufferably  vain  and  conceited,  hardened  in 
his  own  egoism  (so  that  he  could  actually  say  he  didn't  care 
what  people  said  of  him  as  long  as  they  said  something!) :  and 
clever,  with  the  showy  cleverness  that,  without  being  deep, 
appeals  to  the  crowd  —  the  crowd  that,  though  it  starved,  must 
have  a  demi-god.  Not  all  his  "  bluffness  "  nor  his  good-nature 
atoned  for  these  things  she  read  in  him.  Once  —  and  once  only 
—  she  wrote  of  him  to  Jerome.  Somehow  she  never  cared  to 
do  it  again,  though  she  never  quite  knew  why.  Perhaps  be- 
cause Jerome's  reply  was  not  exactly  effusively  approving. 

"He  is  the  sort  of  man  (she  said  then)  who  looks  at  life 
eternally  across  a  well-laid  table.  When  he  gets  to  heaven  — 
and  of  course  he  will  get  there  —  he  will  first  of  all  inquire 
the  way  to  its  premier  restaurant.  To  the  people  who  don't 
accept  him  he  is  either  a  supreme  joke  or  a  supreme  tragedy, 
and  to  his  million  readers  (who  do)  either  a  demi-god  or  an 
encyclopaedia.  (That  is  the  sort  of  public  we  have.)  He 
believes  there  is  always  going  to  be  a  man  on  top  and  a  man 
down  below.  He  even  thinks  it  right  and  proper  that  this 
should  be  so,  but  he  thinks  the  man  on  top  should  be  liberal 
with  his  crumbs.  This,  to  do  him  justice,  he  is,  and  on  much 
the  same  principle  which  prompted  my  Aunt  Milly  to  have  us 
to  stay  with  her  when  we  were  young  and  had  to  be  '  suitably 
married.'  The  kind  of  generosity  which  costs  you  per- 
sonally nothing  at  all  is  usually  worth  —  just  that.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Bletchington,  however,  has  brain  (quite  a  lot  of  it)  without 
intellect;  charm  (personality,  if  you  like)  without  attraction, 
and  he  addresses  all  women  under  thirty  as  '  my  dear.'  This 
he  does  partly  on  principle  and  partly  because  he  thinks, 
being  women,  that  they  like  it.  So  they  do,  unfortunately, 
most  of  them.  .  .  ." 


STORM-WRACK  143 

Later,  she  decided  it  was  that  last  passage  which  had  intro- 
duced that  icy  note  into  Jerome's  reply. 


It  was  on  Saturday  that  the  curtain  lifted,  when  Hilary's 
note  lay  on  Helena's  breakfast-tray.  It  contained  none  of  the 
beginnings  common  to  polite  letter-writers.  It  plunged  straight- 
way into  the  middle  of  its  subject  and  it  was  very  short.  It 
said: 

"  Will  you  come  on  Saturday  and  meet  some  friends  of 
mine?  They're  an  interesting  crowd  that  youll  like.  Do 
come.  Why  not  to  tea?  Early.  Say  at  four." 

It  was  signed  just  "  H.S.S.,"  and  appended  was  a  beautifully 
drawn  map  which  showed  her  how  the  studio  might  be  reached. 

She  went,  but  as  she  stood  on  Hilary's  doorstep  and  pulled 
at  his  bell,  an  outrageous  feeling  of  panic  swept  down  upon 
her.  She  heard  his  feet  on  the  stairs  and  had  a  frantic  desire 
to  turn  and  run.  Then  the  door  flew  open,  shut  again,  and  she 
and  Hilary  were  going  together  up  the  staircase.  She  felt  that 
they  were  cut  off  from  the  world,  the  world  of  'buses  and 
traffic  from  which  she  had  just  emerged.  The  shutting  of 
Hilary's  hall  door  behind  them  had  rendered  it  as  remote  as 
the  poles. 

At  a  turn  of  the  broad  old-fashioned  staircase  he  flung  open 
a  door  and  stood  aside  for  Helena  to  pass  through.  What  she 
saw  first  was  just  a  big  room,  from  which  blue  and  silver 
jumped  out  at  you,  with  an  immense  window,  a  wood  fire,  and 
before  it  a  white  table  laid  for  two.  There  was  no  one  at  all 
in  the  room  save  a  huge,  long-haired  cat  curled  round  in  a  cir- 
cle on  the  hearthrug.  As  Helena  stooped  to  stroke  him  two 
bright  yellow  eyes  looked  out  suddenly  from  the  ball  of  fur 
and  almost  immediately  disappeared  again,  as  if  their  owner 
realised  that  the  new  arrival  boded  no  sort  of  disturbance  to 
his  peaceful  afternoon.  Helena  was  feeling  a  little  dazed,  a 
little  bewildered,  and  she  was  grateful  above  all  things  to  this 
gorgeous  black  creature  just  for  being  there. 

"  What  a  beautiful  cat!  "  she  said. 


144  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

With  his  back  to  her,  Hilary  was  drawing  a  deep  blue  cur- 
tain across  the  door  by  which  they  had  entered.  Its  heavy 
folds  seemed  to  Helena  to  push  the  outer  world  even  a  little 
farther  away  still.  It  was  very  quiet.  There  was  no  sound  at 
all  in  the  blue  and  silver  room  save  the  black  cat's  regular 
breathing  and  the  cheery  singing  of  a  bright  copper  kettle  on  a 
gas-ring  in  the  hearth.  Hilary  was  taking  great  pains  with  his 
curtain,  but  as  Helena  spoke  he  gave  it  a  final  tug  and  looked 
round.  Neither  of  them  was  quite  at  their  ease. 

"  Oh,  Mark  Antony,"  he  said.     "  Yes,  isn't  he?  " 

She  smiled  at  his  Roman  name  for  a  Persian  cat.  "  Where's 
everybody  else?  "  she  asked. 

"Everybody  else?  Oh  .  .  .  there  isn't  going  to  be  anybody 
else." 

"  But  you  said.  .  .  .  You  said  there  was  to  be  a  '  crowd.' " 

"  But  not  to  tea.     I'm  quite  sure  I  didn't  say  to  tea." 

It  was  quite  true.  He  hadn't  said  so:  he  had  merely  sug- 
gested that  she  should  come  to  tea.  She  had  not  realised  that 
until  this  minute.  "Casuist!  "  she  said,  "and  when  does  the 
*  crowd  '  arrive?  " 

"  At  seven  or  thereabouts." 

"  And  it's  now  barely  four." 

"  I  know.     It  was  just  ripping  of  you  to  be  early  like  this." 

Hilary  knelt  down  suddenly  in  front  of  his  rather  unneces- 
sary fire  and  poked  it  into  a  brighter  blaze.  It  crossed 
Helena's  mind  that  he,  too,  perhaps  was  having  an  "  awkward  " 
minute. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Deirdre,"  he  said. 

She  flushed.     "With  you?" 

"With  yourself." 

"  Why  with  myself?  " 

"  For  reading  more  into  my  letter  than  I  put  into  it." 

"How  very  dishonest  you  are!  "  she  said,  and  the  flush 
deepened. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am?  Anyway,  it  was  worth  it.  Because,  if 
I'd  have  been  as  honest  as  all  that  you  mightn't  have  come." 

And,  as  to  that  she  said  nothing,  he  pressed  his  point 
further. 

"  Would  you  have  come,  Deirdre?  " 

"  No  —  of  course  not.     I  mean  .      .  I  don't  think  so." 


STORM-WRACK  145 

"There  you  are,  you  see!     I  had  to  go  on  the  assumption 
that  you  were  —  like  that." 
"Like  what?" 
"  That  you  were  a  little  (only  a  very  little)  conventional." 

She  sat  there  silent,  staring  at  the  broad  back  he  presented  to 
her,  as  he  knelt  there  before  his  fire,  doing  things  with  hot 
water  and  a  teapot.  And  she  thought  that  in  this  accusation 
of  conventionalism  which  he  lodged  against  her,  she  saw  merely 
a  defence  of  his  own  action  in  asking  her  there.  For,  if  ever 
she  was,  Mrs.  Grundy  was  justified  here.  She  had  a  clear  case. 
The  flaming  sword  she  held  out  was  no  thing  of  tinsel  and 
paper:  it  was  a  reality  that  should  have  separated  them  for 
ever.  But  just  now  it  was  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort, 
because  they  were  both  steadfastly  regarding  it  as  a  magnet, 
drawing  them  together,  and  Mrs.  Grundy  was  hopelessly  out- 
classed. But  in  their  hearts  they  knew,  both  of  them,  that 
these  stolen  hours  were  dangerous  —  more  dangerous  than  any- 
thing which  had  preceded  them  —  and  very  sweet. 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  Hilary  said,  looking  up  from  his  toby 
teapot.  How  could  she  be  angry  when  she  smiled  like  that? 

"  I'm  not,"  she  said,  "  now." 

"  Then  take  off  your  hat.  It's  a  cardinal  sin  that  you  should 
ever  wear  a  hat." 

She  took  it  off  and  put  it  down  on  the  floor  at  her  side. 

"  And  now.     What  is  there  for  tea?  " 

"Teacakes,  cress  sandwiches,  bread  and  butter  and  an 
American  cake." 

"  And  did  you  cut  the  sandwiches?  " 

"No.     Would  you  have  liked  them  better  if  I  had?  " 

She  laughed,  but  said  nothing.  Hilary  reached  a  spoon 
from  his  neatly-laid  table,  lifted  the  lid  of  his  teapot  and  stirred 
its  contents  round,  once,  very  carefully. 

"  All  the  best  tea-makers  do  that,"  he  assured  her,  "  and 
afterwards  they  leave  it  for  just  one  minute." 

He  used  that  minute  to  look  at  Helena  in  her  blue-gold  frock 
with  its  square-cut  neck  from  which  her  face  rose,  flushed  and 
sweet,  like  a  pink  tulip.  Everything  about  her  was  fine  and 
rare,  and  yet  not  exotic.  Even  the  shoes  she  wore  surprised 
and  delighted  him,  combining  in  some  quite  magic  fashion 
daintiness  and  common  sense.  No  other  woman  of  those  he 


146  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

knew  or  had  known  managed  to  secure  that  happy  blending  in 
just  that  way.  He  felt  that  Helena  must  always  go  shod  in 
comfort  because  at  any  moment  she  might  be  devoured  by  a 
passion  for  walking.  Do  what  you  would,  you  could  not  think 
of  her  in  a  hot-house.  It  was  still,  for  all  this  dainty  apparel, 
of  the  moors  and  the  uplands  that  you  thought  as  you  looked 
at  her.  London  had  left  her  unspoiled.  For  Hilary,  she  was 
like  Aurora,  who  had  for  children  the  winds  and  the  stars;  and 
the  winds  and  the  stars  and  the  sun  were  all  enmeshed  in 
Helena's  hair.  The  sun  most  of  all,  perhaps.  Whatever  light 
there  was  in  a  room  was  caught,  always,  by  the  warmth  and 
glow  of  it,  as  the  firelight  was  caught  now.  The  clay  was  dull 
and  uncertain,  but  in  the  glow  of  Hilary's  wood  fire,  Helena's 
hair  turned  every  now  and  then  to  flame,  giving  her  a  burnished, 
ardent  look  that  was  repeated  again  in  the  glow  of  her  skin. 
Blue  and  gold  was  the  note  of  her.  She  was  like  the  morning 
—  might  have  run  by  Aurora's  chariot  as  she  drove  to  open  the 
gates  of  day.  From  head  to  foot  she  was  fine  and  exquisite 
and  from  head  to  foot  he  loved  her. 

Something  new  about  him  —  some  fresh  look  in  his  eyes, 
some  fleeting  emotion  of  her  own,  made  her  say  abruptly, 
"  Don't  you  think  the  tea  is  drawn  by  now?  " 

3 

They  had  their  tea,  talking  the  while.  And  though  it  was 
extraordinary  how  the  conversation  continued  to  skim  lightly 
over  the  surface  of  things,  every  now  and  then  they  looked  at 
each  other  and  it  was  as  if  they  said:  "  Isn't  this  clever  of  us? 
I  wonder  how  we  do  it?  "  And  sometimes  it  was  as  if  they 
said :  "  Never  mind  how  we  do  it.  We've  got  to  keep  it  up." 

But  presently  Helena  forgot.  "  We're  talking  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,"  Hilary  agreed.  "  People  do,  sometimes  when 
they're  happy.  Are  you  happy?  " 

"  I  think  I  am  —  very." 

"Don't  you  know?" 

She  wouldn't  answer  that. 

"Would  you  know  if  you'd  got  to  heaven?  Would  you 
recognise  it  when  you  saw  it,  Deirdre?  " 

"  Perhaps.     I  don't  know.     Would  you?  " 


STORM-WRACK  147 

"Rather." 

"  What  sort  of  a  place  would  it  be?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,  Deirdre,  it  would  be  just  any  place  where  you 
happened  to  be." 

The  surface  of  their  lucent,  tranquil  pond  trembled  suddenly 
into  a  wave.  But  Hilary  wouldn't  step  back  from  it.  Neither 
of  them  at  that  moment,  was  going  to  step  back.  They  stood 
there  together,  very  precariously,  on  its  edge,  and  they  looked 
at  each  other  and  smiled.  Their  carefulness  dropped  from 
them  like  a  cloak.  They  let  it  lie  where  it  fell. 

*  You're  very  absurd,"  she  said. 

'  Am  I?     What  sort  of  a  place  is  your  heaven,  Deirdre?  " 

'  Is  there  more  than  one?  " 

'Six  others,  at  least,  because  this  is  the  seventh." 

"The  seventh?" 

'  Of  delight." 

She  didn't  look  at  him,  but  she  said,  "  My  heaven  may  not 
be  yours." 

"  You  really  think  it  isn't?  " 

"Ought  one  to  be  ...  tricked  .  .  .  into  heaven?  " 

She  was  suddenly  serious.  On  the  instant  she  saw  this 
friendship  as  a  thing  of  tricks  and  shadows.  And  she  didn't 
want  it  to  be  like  that.  She  wanted  it  open  and  frank  .  .  . 
like  a  picnic  in  the  sun,  a  picnic  for  two!  As  though  it  could 
ever  be  that  for  long!  As  though  for  them  it  could  ever  b* 
that  at  all!  Her  eyes  were  suddenly  sombre. 

"  Why  not,  if  you  like  it  when  you  get  there?  Or  don't  you 
like  it  now  that  you're  here,  Deirdre?  " 

She  looked  at  him  then,  the  colour  very  rich  and  quick  in 
her  cheeks.  She  looked,  as  Evey  would  have  said,  "  All  lighted 
up  inside."  Hilary  did  not  know  Evey  or  her  phrase,  but  as  he 
looked  at  Helena  his  blood  leaped,  and  he  thought :  "  I  was 
mad  to  bring  her  here  like  this,  mad.  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course  I  like  it,"  she  said.  "  May  I  have  another  cup 
of  tea?" 

He  saw  that  she  had  picked  up  again  that  cloak  of  terrible 
carefulness.  He  said  nothing,  but  his  hand  shook  as  he  poured 
out  her  tea.  And  at  the  back  of  his  brain  his  thought  com- 
pleted itself:  "And  she  was  mad  to  come.  .  .  ." 


148  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

4 

Even  so  it  might  have  been  all  right  if  he  had  not  shown  her 
his  pictures.  Or  if  she  had  not  seen  more  of  them  than  he 
meant  she  should.  .  .  . 

They  stood,  most  of  them,  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  so 
that  Hilary  had  to  turn  them  round  for  her  to  look  at.  They 
made  her  proud  and  yet  very  humble;  touched  some  fine 
tender  chord  within  her  that  had  been  touched  only  once 
before,  when  she  had  looked  with  Hilary  upon  the  little  misty 
Haworth  sketch  as  it  had  stood  like  a  streak  of  amethyst  and 
gold  against  the  background  of  her  Bechstein  grand.  Though 
she  knew  nothing  of  art  she  had  a  natural  feeling  for  beauty: 
it  explained  her  love  of  the  moors  and  of  poetry.  She  felt 
dimly  that  joy  and  happiness  meant  just  that  —  the  perception 
of  the  beautiful,  and  the  work  of  Hilary  Sargent  seemed  to  her 
beautiful  beyond  all  things.  His  landscapes  fascinated  her. 
They  had,  all  of  them,  an  atmosphere  of  the  weird,  of  the 
unusual  —  as  though  the  painter  had  got  at  the  back  of  things 
and  saw  something  which  most  people  did  not  even  know  was 
there  at  all;  as  though  what  he  painted  was  the  soul  of  things 
—  mystic,  unfathomable;  tragic,  sometimes,  as  the  Haworth 
sketch  had  been.  She  saw  the  same  thing  much  more  faintly 
in  the  portraits  he  showed  her;  but  she  was  less  sure  of  its 
significance  here.  She  could  read  the  face  of  nature  with  more 
readiness  than  that  of  humanity.  Her  very  indifference  to  you 
gave  to  nature  a  perfect  freedom  in  which  to  be  herself  — 
ugly,  beautiful,  captivating  or  repellent;  but  men  and  women 
were  not  indifferent  to  you,  and  they  could  hide  —  if  they 
wished  —  so  much  that  was  real  in  themselves  that  you  might 
very  well  never  come  to  know  them,  actually,  at  all.  These 
faces  of  men  and  women  that  she  looked  at  this  afternoon  were 
just  so  many  enigmas  to  her.  They  seemed  to  her  well- 
painted,  but  she  was  too  uncertain  of  herself  to  offer  an  opinion 
there  —  too  humble.  Yet  she  wondered  why  one  o.f  them  (the 
head  of  a  man,  thin,  gaunt,  and  with  eyes  that  questioned) 
should  be  so  oddly  familiar  to  her.  The  head  belonged,  so 
Hilary  said,  to  the  oldest  friend  he  had. 

"He  gave  me  my  first  art  lessons.  You'll  like  Arthur 
Yeomans." 


STORM-WRACK  149 

"  But  why  should  his  face  be  familiar  to  me?  " 

"  You've  met  his  sister,  Mrs.  Wyatt." 

Helena  flushed.  She  had  qualms,  sometimes,  even  now, 
about  that  interrupted  friendship  with  Ursula  Wyatt.  She 
simply  had  not  been  able  to  bear  her  talk  of  Hilary  and  his 
work.  Headaches  were  not  really  satisfactory  as  excuses,  es- 
pecially when  you  looked  (as  Helena  did)  as  though  headaches 
were  accidents  rather  than  a  habit. 

"  But  Mr.  Yeomans,"  she  objected  now,  "  isn't  a  scrap  like 
his  sister." 

"  I  know.  But  you  look  —  there  is  something.  You'd 
think  it  was  the  eyes  until  you  came  to  paint  them,  and  then 
you'd  find  that  even  they  were  different.  It's  very  queer." 

Helena  went  close  and  peered  at  the  portrait.  She  saw  the 
thick,  almost  lumpy  fashion  in  which  Hilary  put  on  his  paint, 
and  it  seemed  to  her,  grotesque,  absurd,  that  by  doing  that  he 
got  the  effect  he  did.  For  she  felt  vaguely  that  the  portrait 
was  fine,  that  the  painting  had  force,  courage,  strength  about 
it.  Yet  pictorial  art  to  her  was  Black  Magic.  She  wrinkled 
her  fine  brows  over  it,  and  the  tip  of  her  nose  took  that  slight 
upward  curve,  as  you  might  upon  occasion  catch  it  doing. 
Hilary  caught  it  now  and  he  laughed. 

"  It's  a  wearisome  business,"  he  said,  "  this  looking  at  other 
people's  pictures.  You're  sure  you're  not  bored?  Perhaps 
you've  seen  enough?  " 

She  only  said,  softly,  with  a  little  intake  of  her  breath, 
"Bored!" 

It  struck  him  that  she  looked  shy  and  fugitive,  like  a  white 
flower  of  the  hills  in  a  bowl  of  orchids. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  that  you'd  come  and  sit  for 
me  one  day.  Will  you?  I  promise  not  to  tire  you  out." 

The  glow  about  her  deepened.  "  I  should  be  pleased,  some 
day,"  she  said. 

"  That's  vague.  What  about  a  Sunday  —  quite  soon?  And 
quite  early.  When  the  light's  at  its  best." 

What  was  left  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  poor  dear,  must  have  fled 
in  horror  from  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  from  the  sight  of 
Helena  standing  there  bathed  in  joy.  Great  waves  of  it  rolled 
over  her,  swamping  her,  waves  of  wild,  delirious,  unexpected 
happiness.  They  caught  at  her  breath,  robbing  her  of  words. 


150  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"You  haven't  answered,  you  know,"  Hilary  said  presently. 

"  I  shall  be  pleased,"  she  said  again,  "  and  whenever  you 
like.  .  .  ." 

But  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  turning  back  to  his  canvases 
instead  of  standing  there  looking  at  her.  She  noticed  (even 
across  this  queer,  unbelievable  agitation  of  hers)  that  Hilary 
only  glanced  very  hurriedly  at  the  next  batch  of  pictures  and 
passed  on.  The  thought  flashed  through  her  brain:  "Why 
doesn't  he  show  me  those?  ";  she  took  a  step  forward  and  the 
next  instant  her  foot  had  caught  against  the  edge  of  the  fore- 
most and  the  whole  batch  came  clattering  noisily  down  upon 
the  floor. 

"  Oh,  how  clumsy  .  .  ."  she  began,  and  then  stopped,  her 
eyes  on  the  one  picture  she  could  see  in  its  entirety  —  a  water- 
colour  sketch  of  a  girl  in  blue  and  gold,  who  sat  writing  in  the 
path  of  a  winter  sun.  Beyond  the  window  a  November  garden, 
and  over  it  November's  silvery  mist.  Her  Yorkshire  garden, 
and  she  sitting  there  on  that  first  day  —  waiting.  She  remem- 
bered for  what  —  for  the  luncheon  bell  to  ring.  .  .  . 

She  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  picture  to  Hilary's  face,  but  he 
evaded  the  glance,  stooped  and  began  to  pick  up  his  displaced 
canvases.  She  stood  there,  making  no  attempt  to  help,  hearing 
his  voice  come  a  little  thick,  a  little  hard. 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  show  you  these.  But  perhaps  now  you'd 
better  see  them  all." 

He  set  them  out  neatly  before  her.  Something  mechanical 
within  her  counted  them  as  he  did  so  —  four,  five,  six,  seven. . .  . 

"Eight!  "  she  said,  almost  to  herself. 

"  I  did  them  from  memory,  and  that's  not  all.  There's  a 
whole  book  of  sketches." 

She  stood  there  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  them,  her 
hands  clasped  quite  tightly  in  front  of  her,  her  mouth  a  twisted 
piteous  bow  in  her  white  face.  Because  she  had  thought,  that 
day  at  the  Red  House,  that  she  had  deceived  herself,  that  he 
had  not  cared.  And  he  had  cared,  all  the  time,  like  this. 
Suddenly  something  hot  welled  up  in  her  throat,  choking  her: 
a  mist  before  her  eyes  blotted  out  the  pictures.  She  heard 
Hilary  saying,  "You  see  .  .  .  how  it  is,"  and  then,  very 
slowly,  she  lifted  her  hands  and  covered  her  white  face  with 
them.  Hilary  stood  there  looking  at  her,  struggled  to  stay 


STORM-WRACK  151 

where  he  was  and  then  went  forward  and  tried  to  pull  down  her 
hands. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  "  don't.     What's  the  matter?  " 

Her  hands  resisted  his. 

"  Don't  hide  your  face,  Deirdre,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  look 
at  you,  and  I  can't  if  you  won't  uncover  your  face.". 

And  still  her  hands  resisted  his. 

"  Deirdre.     Look  at  me.     Look  at  me,  dear." 

She  let  him  draw  her  hands  down.  Her  fingers  against  his 
were  wet.  He  looked  at  her,  and  he  said: 

"  Deirdre.  .  .  .  You  look  very  beautiful,  I  think,  with  the 
tears  in  your  eyes." 

Of  his  voice  nothing  remained  but  a  passionate  whisper,  but 
the  passion  had  awe  in  it,  awe  and  wonder  and  reverence. 
That,  perhaps,  most  of  all.  Reverence  for  her  and  for  the 
wonderful  thing  that  was  happening  to  them  both  despite  their 
effort  to  prevent  it.  For  an  instant  it  was  as  if  they  swayed 
helplessly  towards  each  other  —  something  impalpable,  in- 
tangible stretched  between  them,  drawing  them  together,  and 
then,  because  there  was  no  help  at  all  for  it,  he  had  her  in  his 
arms,  his  mouth  on  hers. 

Outside,  the  moon,  very  young  and  thin,  a  pale  wraith  in  the 
afternoon  sky,  came  up  and  looked  in  at  them,  as  it  had  looked 
at  them  once  before.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  THREE 


THE  evening  that  followed  remained  with  Helena  as 
a  mere  jumble  of  recollections  —  odds  and  ends  of  her 
talk  with  Arthur  Yeomans  about  many  things,  femin- 
ism, the  Brontes,  books  and  of  Yorkshire,  and  the  way  the 
sun  came  up  like  fire  over  Haffington  Ridge.  And  things  about 
Hilary  and  his  last  year's  Academy  picture,  "  La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Merci,"  which  had  brought  him  many  portrait  commis- 
sions that  bored  him  as  much  as  the  sitters.  A  strange,  un- 
familiar Hilary,  this,  who  would  have  it  there  wasn't  time  for 
life  and  a  career  —  that  you  had  to  decide  which  you  wanted 
the  more. 

Mixed  up  with  this  conversation  was  a.  girl's  playing  of 
Chopin,  a  girl  who  wore  black  and  white  and  whose  portrait 
hung  over  the  Bliithner  grand  at  which  she  played.  Helena 
remembered  the  racing  of  slim,  white  fingers  over  the  key- 
board, holding  a  twisting  and  turning  melody  well  in  hand  — 
like  a  strong  wrist  on  the  bridle  of  a  thoroughbred.  But  she 
remembered  more  than  that:  she  remembered  that  once  Hilary 
raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her,  as  though  through  the  music 
he  sent  her  some  message  she  would  catch  and  understand. 
But  she  had  flushed  and  looked  away,  as  though,  after  all,  she 
had  not  understood  —  or  had  understood  too  well. 

And  besides  the  Chopin,  and  Arthur's  conversation,  there 
were  echoes  of  what  other  people  said  —  queer,  bright  tan- 
talising talk  of  politics,  art,  some  Impressionist  Exhibition  in 
East  London;  personalia  by  Nelly,  a  violin  solo  by  a  girl  in 
a  red  frock  who  looked  like  a  streak  of  flame  against  Hilary's 
black  piano ;  ragtime  by  the  youhg  man  who  played  her  accom- 
paniment (an  outrageously  brilliant  performance,  this,  at  which 
the  black  and  white  girl  who  played  Chopin  raised  scornful 
shoulders) ;  a  smashing  criticism  by  Hilary  of  somebody's 

152 


STORM-WRACK  153 

sketch  of  a  little  Quaker-like  person  in  grey;  the  lazy  voice  of  a 
big  girl  in  green  addressing  a  pretty  person  in  a  terra-cotta 
frock  that  made  her  look  like  a  pink  rose  growing  on  an  old 
garden  wall,  "  My  dear,  do  tell  us.  Have  we  to  congratulate 
you?  .  .  ."  And  the  chorus  of  congratulation  which  came 
when  a  tall  someone  who  had  been  talking  politics  in  a  corner 
came  out  of  it  and  said  that  they  had.  Only  Hilary  stood 
aloof,  saying  nothing,  not  looking  at  the  tall  someone  at  all 
and  scowling  at  the  pretty  pink  and  white  person  in  the 
terra-cotta  frock. 

And  presently,  right  at  the  end,  there  was  Arthur  Yeomans 
again,  helping  in  her  search  for  truant  hatpins,  and  his  voice 
asking  her  carelessly  if  she  had  far  to  go.  ...  And  then 
Hilary's,  telling  her  in  a  whisper  that  she  wasn't  to  hurry  .  .  . 
that  she  was  to  let  them  all  get  on. 

They  all  did,  except  Arthur.  Even  when  the  hatpins  were 
found  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  It 
was  a  rather  silent  trio  that  walked  down  to  the  King's  Road 
where  Arthur  presently  took  his  leave  and  Hilary  and  Helena 
crossed  over  and  waited  for  a  'bus.  When  it  came  they  climbed 
on  top  and  sat  in  the  front  seat,  with  clasped  hands. 

Guilford  Street,  as  they  walked  up  it,  was  very  quiet.  A 
pale  crescent  moon  in  a  cloudy  sky  alone  kept  watch,  and  down 
the  street  a  strong  west  wind  came  rollicking.  Outside  Mrs. 
Rogers's  house  they  stopped  short.  There  was  a  tiny  bead 
of  light  in  the  hall  —  the  sort  of  light  that  has  the  air  of 
sitting  up  for  you  in  dressing-gown  and  curling-pins.  It 
"  felt "  very  late.  Suddenly,  as  she  stood  there  pushing  back 
the  hair  that  stung  her  eyes  and  hot  cheeks,  Hilary  drew  her  up 
closely  against  him  and  kissed  her.  They  had  forgotten  the 
street  completely:  they  had  forgotten,  in  that  one  moment, 
everything  in  all  the  world,  save  their  unutterable,  terrible 
need  of  each  other. 


This  jumble  of  odds  and  ends  that  made  up  an  evening 
presently  sorted  itself  out,  so  that  Helena's  memories  and  im- 
pressions tacked  themselves  on  to  the  right  people  and  remained 
there.  Hilary  helped,  ticking  off  his  friends  for  her  one  by  one 
on  the  next  day,  when  for  the  whole  length  of  it  he  had  her 


154  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

to  himself  in  his  blue  and  silver  room.  (He  had  extracted  that 
promise  from  her  down  there  on  the  pavement  in  Guilford 
Street,  but  had  not  dared  to  believe  she  would  keep  it  until 
he  saw  her  standing  on  his  doorstep,  looking  like  a  damp 
violet.  For  the  day  was  wet  —  a  beast  of  a  day,  as  the  people 
in  the  'bus  had  said  consolingly  to  each  other.) 

Hilary's  list,  of  course,  began  with  Arthur  Yeomans  and 
went  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  water-colour  sketch  he  was 
making  of  Helena.  It  was  a  trifle  difficult,  she  found,  to  move 
Arthur  from  the  conversational  stage  when  Hilary  had  got  him 
thoroughly  going.  And  even  when  at  last  she  did  manage  to 
edge  him  into  the  wings,  she  was  worried  for  several  minutes 
afterwards  by  the  sensation  that  he  was  standing  there  keeping 
an  eye  on  them.  For  he  was  one  of  the  people  they  would 
have,  she  and  Hilary,  to  placate.  If  they  went  on.  And  she 
thought  they  would. 

It  was  of  that  she  was  thinking  while  Hilary  talked  of  De- 
siree  Bonnard,  the  black  and  white  French  girl  who  played 
Chopin  —  who  played  Chopin,  it  appeared,  to  all  London  and 
Paris  that  cared  for  him,  which  was  a  good  deal,  even  when 
you  had  made  allowance  for  the  people  who  preferred  ragtime. 
Hilary  had  met  Desiree  in  Paris  many  years  ago  before  Paris 
(or  London  or  anyone  else)  had  heard  of  her,  and  Helena 
gathered  that  he  had  a  very  real  affection  for  her,  despite  an 
unaccommodating  temperament  that  was  like  some  people's 
umbrella,  because  you  never  saw  her  without  it. 

Also,  Hilary  was  fond  of  Barbara  Fielding,  the  big,  dark 
girl  who  had  talked  about  the  Whitechapel  Impressionist  ex- 
hibition and  who  (so  Hilary  said)  did  really  beautiful  model  - 
lirtg.  (Look  at  that  little  "  Diana  "  on  Hilary's  mantelpiece.) 
Barbara  was  fine:  courageous  and  firm  as  steel.  A  man  was 
lucky  who  might  count  Barbara  Fielding  his  friend.  And 
Hilary  did. 

There  was,  too,  Denis  O'Connell,  the  man  who  came  with 
a  string  of  pretty  ladies  and  was  an  Irish  journalist.  He  had 
definite  views  on  Sinn  Fein,  Home  Rule,  pretty  women  and  the 
poetry  of  Francis  Thompson.  Later,  that  was  all  Helena 
remembered  about  Denis  O'Connell  —  that  he  believed  (or 
was  it  disbelieved?  Helena  never  quite  knew)  in  Home  Rule: 
that  he  disliked  the  poetry  of  Francis  Thompson  (or  liked  it. 


STORM-WRACK  155 

Again  Helena  never  quite  knew)  and  had  an  affection  for  pretty 
women.  Not  that  they  mattered,  so  Hilary  said.  There  was 
such  a  procession  of  them,  and  they  were  all  like  their  proto- 
type in  the  musical  play  who  had  been  brought  to  be  looked  at 
and  "not  to  be  talked  to,  please."  They  existed  as  sight- 
refreshers;  as  so  many  boracic  eyebaths.  Besides,  the  only 
girl  Denis  really  cared  anything  about  was  Barbara,  who,  for 
reasons  of  her  own,  was  not  likely  to  marry  Denis. 

The  little  pink  and  white  person  who  had  looked  in  her  terra- 
cotta frock  like  a  rose  on  a  garden  wall,  was  Pamela  Grant. 
She  wrote  the  "  Georgette  "  column  in  the  Woman's  Looking- 
glass  and  similar  things  in  similarly  intellectual  publications. 
It  was  very  obvious  that  Hilary  detested  Pamela  before  he 
called  her  a  boa-constrictor  and  sniffed  at  Helena's  phrase 
about  the  rose  and  the  wall.  Because  Pamela  was  the  girl 
they  had  congratulated  the  other  night.  She  was  going  to 
marry  Ronnie  Sand  and  the  thought  roused  Hilary  to  a  queer, 
impotent  fury.  Ronnie  belonged  to  the  good  old  days  (at 
twenty-six  he  talked  of  them,  absurdly,  like  that,  making 
Helena  smile) :  the  days  of  the  Slade  and  of  Paris.  Ronnie 
was  an  artist,  and  art  bored  Pamela  not  to  the  soul  (she 
hadn't  one)  but  certainly  to  distraction.  Besides,  she  got  very 
badly  in  the  way,  so  that  since  her  advent  pleasant  things  had 
come  to  an  end.  Hilary  and  Ronnie  spent,  these  days,  but 
few  hours  together:  Paris,  Bucks,  Surrey  and  Rye  knew  them 
no  more.  And  even  on  these  Saturday  evenings  you  couldn't 
be  quite  sure  that  Ronnie  would  turn  up,  because  it  wasn't 
only  art,  apparently,  that  bored  Pamela,  and  Pamela  just  now 
was  really  all  that  Ronnie  cared  about.  These  things,  Helena 
saw,  were  bitter  in  Hilary's  mouth. 

Another  person  intimately  bound  up  with  the  days  when 
these  pleasant  things  had  been,  was  Philip  Roscoe.  Phil  was 
not  an  artist,  at  least,  not  in  pencil  or  pigment.  His  medium 
was  words.  He  was  on  the  literary  staff  of  the  Signal,  an 
advanced  weekly  with  ideas  on  Party  Government  that  were  apt 
to  become  tiresome  and  several  bees  in  its  bonnet  that  were  at 
least  amusing.  Lately,  however,  Phil  had  left  the  broad  high- 
way of  literature  and  side-tracked  not  after  a  Pamela,  it  is 
true,  but  after  politics,  which  was  almost  as  bad,  since  Hilary 
disliked  the  one  as  much  as  the  other.  Phil,  it  seemed,  had 


156  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

written  a  recent  pamphlet  entitled  Where  are  we  Drifting? 
which  Hilary  had  not  read  because  he  didn't  want  to  know. 
He  never  did  want  to  know  things  like  that  because  he  was 
scornful  of  politics  and  politicians,  for  both  bored  him  pro- 
foundly. Just  occasionally  he  would  read  something  which 
Phil  enthused  about  (like  the  books  on  Red  Rubber  and  Mo- 
rocco that  Helena  had  borrowed  and  which  were  different) 
but  they  were  not  things  of  permanent  interest.  Foreign  poli- 
tics were  remote  and  unreal  (even  Phil  could  not  make  them 
anything  else)  and  home  politics  were  absurd.  You  heard 
continually  that  if  certain  things  happened  the  country  would 
go  to  the  dogs:  if  others,  that  it  would  not.  And  the  country 
remained  precisely  where  it  was.  You  couldn't  possibly  get 
excited  about  matters  of  this  sort:  life  was  far  too  interesting. 
And  besides,  the  literary  Phil  was  so  much  nicer  than  the  po- 
litical Phil  that  one  hoped  it  would  soon  emerge. 

Hilary  had  little  or  nothing  to  say  of  the  girl  in  green  with 
the  lazy  voice,  though  his  dislike  of  her  was  less  active  than 
passive.  She  was  supposed  to  do  secretarial  work  for  the 
novelist,  Paynesfield,  though  Hilary  wondered  how  so  good  a 
novelist  could  stand  so  bad  a  secretary.  He  was  quite  sure 
Dagmar  North  was  bad  as  a  secretary.  She  was  too  slow,  too 
fat,  too  much  the  embodiment  of  the  qualities  he  most  disliked 
and  which  he  assumed  (quite  unwarrantably)  that  Paynesfield 
also  disliked. 

Then  there  was  Conrad  Howe,  the  young  sculptor  who  was 
responsible  for  the  bronze  relief  of  Hilary  that  hung  over  his 
mantelpiece,  and  who  disagreed  with  Hilary  over  Dagmar. 
But  Conrad's  affection  for  that  lady  did  not  greatly  trouble 
Hilary  because  he  was  quite  sure  Dagmar  did  not  intend  to 
marry  him.  Dagmar  had  other  fish  to  fry  and  was  very  busy 
over  them,  so  Hilary  said.  Besides,  you  couldn't  help  seeing 
that  he  cared  less  for  Conrad  and  his  matrimonial  fate  than 
he  did  for  Ronnie  and  his. 

The  little  person  in  grey  was  Stella  Gretton,  the  wife  of 
Stephen  Gretton,  a  young  Quaker,  who  had  married  her, 
according  to  Hilary,  because  she  looked  the  sort  of  wife  a 
Quaker  ought  to  have,  though  you  need  not  believe  that  unless 
you  liked.  Stephen  was  quixotic  and  idealistic  and  a  clever 


STORM-WRACK  157 

black  and  white  artist:  Stella  was  none  of  these  things,  but 
she  was  sweet  and  charming  and  simple  and  had  already  learned 
to  prefer  Chelsea  to  Brighton.  Stella  might  very  well  have 
stepped  down  from  a  Marcus  Stone  picture.  Marcus  Stone's 
pictures  didn't  appeal  to  Hilary,  but  he  certainly  drew  pretty 
women,  and  little  Stella  Gretton  was  pretty  in  just  that  way. 

Then  there  were  the  sisters  Dune  —  Olive  and  Vivien. 
Olive  was  the  girl  who  had  made  the  sketch  of  Stella  Gretton 
upon  which  Hilary  had  been  so  hard  (but  not  so  hard,  Hilary 
told  her,  as  the  sketch  had  been  upon  Stella ! ) .  Olive  was  red- 
haired  and  energetic.  She  was  the  sign  and  symbol,  according 
to  Hilary,  who  seemed  to  know  all  about  these  things,  of  the 
modern  woman,  who  works  less  for  results  than  to  keep  her 
mind  employed.  A  great  deal  of  leisure  was  a  dangerous 
thing,  and  civilisation  had  left  the  moneyed  woman  little  else. 
Ibsen  knew  that  and  had  written  Hedda  Gabler,  or  The  Per- 
petual Warning  to  Fathers.  Other  people  to-day  were  seeing 
it  too,  among  them  Mrs.  Snowden  and  Olive  Schreiner.  And 
before  any  of  them  there  had  been  Charlotte  Bronte.  Amaz- 
ing what  Charlotte  had  known,  what  she  had  seen  with  that 
Titan-woman  of  hers,  kneeling  there  on  the  hillside.  .  .  . 

This,  Helena  discovered,  was  another  topic  diffcult  to  get 
Hilary  to  leave,  but  he  did  presently  arrive  at  Olive's  sister 
Vivien,  the  girl  with  the  red  frock  and  the  violin.  Vivien  had 
talent  and  no  industry.  You  simply  could  not  make  her  work, 
not  even  Desiree,  who  had  tried  very  hard  and  had  given  up  in 
despair.  Vivien  was  dilettante  to  the  soul  and  the  only  person 
who  really  liked  her  that  way  was  Brian  Vincent,  the  nice- 
looking  youth  who  played  ragtime  and  (even  worse)  composed 
it.  Brian  did  not  really  care  either  for  genius  or  energy  in  a 
woman,  and  found  Desiree  and  Olive  much  too  exhausting. 
His  ragtime  was  a  hobby:  more  or  less  harmless,  according  to 
the  point  of  view.  Somewhere  in  the  background  or  in  the 
City  or  somewhere  equally  vague  and  remote  there  lurked  a 
clerical  occupation.  But  nobody  ever  referred  to  it,  because 
nobody,  here,  was  at  all  interested  in  the  City.  Helena  did  not 
blame  them  for  that. 

Hilary  thought  it  was  probably  true  that  there  was  some- 
thing between  Brian  and  Vivien,  but  they  were  a  self-contained 


158  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

pair  and  if  there  were  no  one  knew  how  far  it  had  gone.  And 
personally,  Hilary  thought  that  Vivien  would  find  love  a  much 
too  exhausting  business  altogether. 

"  But  mightn't  she  be  lazy,  too,  in  love?  "  Helena  asked. 

"Then  it's  Brian  who  would  find  it  exhausting,"  Hilary 
told  her. 

These  things  took  up  a  good  deal  of  time  to  relate.  Later, 
when  they  were  done,  there  was  tea. 


Later  still,  they  talked  of  themselves.  .  .  . 

Less  easy,  this,  they  discovered.  The  evening  was  as  wet  as 
the  day  had  been  and  Hilary  had  builded  a  fire.  They  sat  at 
its  side,  Helena  in  Hilary's  deep  blue  chair,  he  on  a  pile  of 
cushions  at  her  feet.  Her  hands  caressed  his  hair,  as  if  in 
blessing,  and  the  silence  came  down  upon  them  like  mist  on  a 
mountain.  The  room  was  so  still  you  could  hear  the  sighing 
of  the  flames  as  they  sped  up  the  chimney,  the  sound  of  Mark 
Antony's  regular  breathing  and  the  steady  drip,  drip  of  the 
rain.  They  reached  the  ear  as  separate  and  distinct  sounds  — 
stabbing  the  quiet,  that  seemed  to  fold  itself  yet  more  closely 
about  them.  The  world  emptied  and  emptied,  until  they  only 
were  left  —  the  last  man  and  the  last  woman,  together. 

Hilary  was  the  first  to  speak.  Ardent  yet  trepid,  his  voice 
divided  the  mist  like  the  rising  sun,  and  they  had  it  out,  then, 
between  them  —  her  story  and  his.  Hers  came  first.  Once 
she  broke  out  in  protest  over  it.  "  It  isn't  fair.  It  isn't  fair. 
One  acts  in  ignorance  and  suffers  for  it  all  the  rest  of  life!  " 

But  it  was  left  to  Hilary  to  voice  the  awful  staggering 
thought  that  had  not  so  much  as  occurred  to  her. 

**  Suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  .  .  .  your  husband  (the  word 
stuck  in  his  throat)  makes  difficulties.  Suppose  he  isn't  '  de- 
cent '?  "  For  that  had  been  the  word  they  had  used.  Decent. 
That  was  how  they  thought  of  it. 

"You'd  want,  wouldn't  you,"  he  asked  her,  "the  sanction 
of  society?  " 

She  said  that  she  didn't  know  that  she  would. 

"  I  shouldn't  want  anything  —  so  long  as  I  had  you.  Be- 
sides, if  the  law  is  really  like  that  —  if  someone  can  stand  in 


STORM-WRACK  159 

the  way  as  you  think  Jerome  might  —  it's  a  bad  law  and  ought 
to  be  ignored." 

**  Could  you  ignore  it,  Deirdre?  " 

She  said  she  could. 

"  You  really  love  me  enough  for  that?  " 

"  For  much  more." 

"You're  really  not  one  bit  afraid?  " 

"  Of  you?     Of  your  getting  tired?  " 

She  could  actually  say  it. 

"  You  needn't  fear  that,  Deirdre.  But  all  the  other  things! 
Wouldn't  they  get  in  the  way  and  spoil  things?  The  lies  we'd 
have  to  tell  (we  should,  you  know,  to  the  people  who  simply 
wouldn't  have  the  truth:  there  are  lots  of  them).  The  de- 
ceits, the  pretences.  Wouldn't  you  hate  all  those?  And 
wouldn't  you  hate  having  to  placate  people  when  you  only 
wanted  to  get  on  with  life?  " 

She  smiled.  "All  that  — in  Chelsea?"  she  said.  "I 
thought  Mrs.  Grundy  never  crossed  the  King's  Road?  " 

"  Oh,  Chelsea !  As  if  I'd  want  to  keep  you  cooped  up  in 
Chelsea  all  your  life.  Besides,  Deirdre,  I'm  afraid,  even  if 
you  aren't." 

"  Afraid  that  you  may  get  tired  ?  " 

"  No  —  afraid  that  I  hate  the  thing  that  is  illicit  too  much  to 
live  with  it.  ...  You're  bigger  on  this  than  I  am.  Things 
haven't  been  spoiled  for  you,  deep  down,  at  the  source." 

Some  instinct  kept  her  silent,  made  her  sit  utterly  still. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  that  long  slender  hand  propping  his  head 
and  suddenly  she  remembered  the  touch  of  it  against  her  face, 
and  a  lance  pricked  sharply  at  her  heart.  The  feeling,  the 
sympathy  between  them  was  absolute.  He  had  the  power  to 
hurt:  they  had  the  power  to  hurt  each  other.  Suffering  and 
misery  could  touch  them  now  only  through  each  other. 

He  had  moved  his  seat  and  sat  opposite  her,  but  he  did  not 
look  at  her  as  he  told  his  story  of  the  poisoning  of  the  wells, 
but  once  when  a  little  sound  escaped  her,  he  stopped  short. 
"Can't  you  bear  to  hear  it  either?  "  he  asked.  "Are  you  as 
bad  as  I  am,  after  all?  " 

Even  in  her  pain  she  wanted  to  smile  at  this  trick  he  had  of 
charging  other  people  with  the  faults  he  loathed  in  himself. 
That  solicitor  man  for  whom  she  had  worked  had  had  it  "  I 


160  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

suppose  you're  too  proud  to  carry  a  parcel?  "  he  had  said  to 
her  once  when  he  wanted  something  urgently  taken  to  the  post 
office  and  the  boy  was  out.  It  was  funny  she  should  remember 
that  now.  But  funnier  still  was  the  fact  that  Hilary  had  the 
trick  too.  Then  the  pain  came  back  and  she  was  crouching 
there  at  his  feet,  with  her  head  on  his  knee. 

It  was  dark  before  they  had  finished  with  that  old  story  of 
his  —  and  that  of  hers,  which  though  less  old  might  come  to 
matter  even  more.  And  at  the  end  they  sat  like  two  solitary 
survivors  amid  the  calamitous  wreck  of  things.  There  seemed 
no  more  to  say.  They  sat  silent,  their  hands  clasped,  with  the 
blue  flame  of  the  fire  dancing  along  the  floor  and  up  the  walls, 
and  making  weird  shadows  on  their  white  faces. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


A  MISERABLE  old  story,  but  Helena  was  ready,  it  seems, 
to  risk  even  that.     She  snapped  her  fingers  at  its  evil 
legacy  of  apprehension.     She  cared  enough  for  that.  .  .  . 
So  they  stopped  being  serious  and  grown-up  and  became 
like  two  children  playing  in  the  sun.     They  would  cross  no 
more  bridges  as  yet  nor  think  of  them  stretched  out  for  them 
in  the  future,  dark  and  uncertain,  as  a  forest  at  midnight. 
Helena  had  said,  "  I  could  write.     But  I  won't.     I'm  not  a 
coward  —  or  not  that  sort  of  coward,  anyhow.     I'll  wait  until 
Jerome  comes  back.  .  .  ." 

A  Fool's  Paradise!  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  was  the  best  they 
could  do  for  Jerome  at  the  moment.  It  didn't  prevent  them 
(that  thought  of  him  there)  from  being  happy.  Nothing 
could  do  that.  There  was  the  picture  to  sit  for:  plays  to  see, 
books  to  read  and  walks  to  take.  To  this  first  period  of  quiet 
happiness  belonged  Helena's  discovery  of  Bucks  and  Hertford- 
shire: of  the  Surrey  villages  nestling  beneath  the  great  shoul- 
ders of  Leith  Hill  and  Box  Hill.  Hilary  had  found  them  be- 
fore and  had  forgotten  them,  so  that  rediscovering  them  with 
Helena  was  something  of  an  adventure.  But  wherever  they 
went  Richmond  retained  for  them  all  the  compelling  power 
of  first  love.  They  went  back  to  it  again  and  again  and  each 
time  they  agreed  that  the  view  from  the  Terrace  was  really 
"  one  of  the  finest  in  England."  The  phrase  was  no  longer 
just  an  extravaganza  of  the  advertisement  people.  When  they 
looked  at  it  together  it  just  was  all  they  claimed  for  it.  Things 
were  better  when  they  saw  them  together.  That  was  why 
Hilary  longed  to  take  Helena  to  Bruges.  It  did  matter,  some- 
how, whom  you  saw  places  with.  .  .  . 

161 


162  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


Hilary  was  told  all  about  Evey,  of  course.  "  Your  wonder- 
ful Evey,"  he  called  her  teasingly  to  Helena,  who  didn't  mind 
in  the  least,  because  Evey  was  "  wonderful."  Desiree's  wish 
to  hear  Estelle  play  served  as  a  good  reason  why  the  sisters 
should  be  asked  one  Saturday  evening  to  the  studio.  They 
came.  Estelle  in  white,  with  her  starlike  beauty,  chaste  and 
remote,  a  pale  aureole  of  shimmering  hair  and  passionate, 
wide-set  eyes;  and  Evey  in  an  orange  frock  unrelieved  by 
anything  save  her  own  vivid  complexion  and  the  dead  black  of 
her  hair.  Evey  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  could  wear 
brilliant  colours  without  their  stealing  her  own.  Beside  her 
burning  incarnadined  beauty  Helena's  had  a  pellucid  diaph- 
anous note.  Against  Evey's  passionate  fervour  her  calm 
serenity  was  like  a  star  shining  on  still  water.  Looking  at 
them  together  Hilary  thought  of  the  June  sun  on  Sussex  gorse 
and  of  moonlight  on  ice. 

Nelly's  sharp  eyes  had  lighted  instantly  on  Evey.  "  My 
dear,  wherever  did  he  find  her?  "  she  asked  Helena.  "  I  can't 
keep  my  eyes  off  her.  She's  like  a  magnet." 

"  Hilary  didn't  find  her,"  Helena  said,  thrilling.  "  I  did. 
I  think  she's  just  wonderful  to  look  at;  she's  like  a  harvest 
moon  over  a  cornfield.  You  don't  see  anything  else." 

That,  apparently,  was  also  how  it  took  Philip  Roscoe.  He 
came  in  late  that  evening,  but  before  the  end  of  it  he  and  Evey 
were  talking  together  as  though  they  had  known  each  other  a 
lifetime.  And  later  on,  outside  in  the  King's  Road,  Phil  had 
secured  a  taxi  for  the  sisters  before  Hilary  had  as  much  as 
seen  it. 

"  Now,"  Helena  said  to  Hilary  when  they  had  climbed  to  the 
top  of  their  'bus.  "  Isn't  she  wonderful  ?  " 

"Who?     Evey  or  Estelle?  " 

"  Both.     But  I  meant  Evey." 

"  Phil  seemed  to  find  her  charming,  certainly." 

"  Oh,  but  she  is.  She's  the  most  wonderful  person  in  the 
world." 

"Nonsense.  There's  only  one  really  wonderful  person  in 
the  world  —  and  you  know  who  that  is." 

Helena  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 


STORM-WRACK  163 

"  Yes  —  you,"  she  said  and  smiled. 

In  the  darkness  her  smile  seemed  to   glow,   phosphores- 
cent , 


They  paused  in  their  own  happiness,  these  two,  to  watch 
that  of  Phil  and  Evey.  For  it  grew  apace.  Evey's  visits  to 
the  studio  became  very  frequent  and  were  not  limited  to  the 
usual  Saturday  evening.  Either  she  arrived  with  Phil  or  Phil 
came  rushing  in  so  soon  after  her  arrival  that  you  got  the  im- 
pression he  had  followed  on  the  next  'bus,  seeing  her  flying 
before  him  all  the  way  like  an  autumn  leaf  before  the  wind. 
At  the  studio  they  talked  so  much  that  Helena  wondered  if 
when  they  were  together  they  ever  left  off.  She  had  a  fleeting 
funny  vision  of  them  shrieking  at  each  other  from  tube  to  tube, 
rushing  noisily  and  boisterously  from  one  'bus  to  another,  with 
Evey  looking  like  a  burning  flame  and  Phil  scorching  himself 
at  it  beyond  redemption. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  these  things  that  helped  Hilary 
(even  amid  this  quiet  wonder  of  happiness)  to  realise  how 
terribly  he  hated  this  pretence  and  make-believe,  and  how 
right  he  had  been  when  he  had  said  that  love  was  a  thing  for 
the  uplands  and  sunlight  —  that  you  spoiled  and  smudged  it  if 
you  dragged  it  down  into  the  dark  and  attempted  to  hide  it. 
Certainly  there  were  days  when  he  saw  with  a  horrible  dis- 
tinctness that  the  happiness  they  shared  between  them  was  a 
terribly  precarious  affair  —  a  thing  of  tricks  and  shadows,  that 
depended  upon  their  keeping  one  person  in  his  Fool's  Paradise 
and  upon  his  behaving  "  decently  "  when  he  emerged.  That 
was  still  the  word  they  used.  Decent.  That  was  still  how  they 
thought  of  it. 

There  were  difficult  days,  too,  for  Helena  —  days  when  she 
was  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  Jerome  away  there  in  his 
Paradise  of  Fools  where  she  and  Hilary  between  them  had 
landed  him.  She  could  not  protest,  with  Hilary,  that  he  had 
had  his  "  chance,"  and  had  failed.  She  didn't  see  it  like  that. 
Everything  was  against  her  ever  seeing  it  like  that.  There 
were  times  when  she  wanted  more  than  all  else  to  lead  Jerome 
out  of  his  Paradise,  even  though  she  had  no  better  alternative 


164  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

to  offer  him  than  the  dusty  highway  of  Truth.  And  that  was 
a  thing  you  couldn't  discuss  with  Hilary.  With  something  like 
dismay  she  had  seen  that  very  plainly.  A  decision  once  made, 
it  seemed  to  Hilary  a  sign  of  weakness  (even  with  things  con- 
stantly happening  to  show  that  the  decision  was  wrong)  to  go 
back  and  reconsider  it. 

And  Helena  didn't  agree,  so  that,  even  as  early  as  all  this, 
amid  their  new  bewildering  happiness,  there  were  crises. 

There  was  the  wet  evening  when  after  a  theatre  Evey  spent 
the  night  at  Guilford  Street  in  olden  fashion.  Mrs.  Rogers 
had  lighted  a  fire  and  long  after  Evey  was  asleep  with  her 
happiness  Helena  had  lain  watching  the  flickering  shadows  on 
the  wall,  wondering  if,  all  her  life,  a  room  lighted  by  the 
uncertain  flame  of  a  fire  was  going  to  remind  her  of  Hilary 
and  that  first  meeting  of  theirs  in  that  deserted  house  on  the 
edge  of  the  moor.  Sometimes,  it  seems,  you  grew  up  in  spite 
of  yourself,  and  thought  about  things. 

You  could  stand  it  when  it  happened  to  you  alone.  But 
there  were  times  when  it  did  not,  like  that  morning  Jerome's 
letter  had  come,  announcing  that  he  was  sailing  on  the  tenth 
of  July.  Eight  weeks  that  gave  them,  nine,  allowing  for  the 
journey,  because  this  was  the  middle  of  May.  Helena  made 
the  hateful  calculation  over  her  breakfast  and  found  she  could 
stand  it:  that  same  evening  she  made  it  again  with  Hilary 
and  found  she  could  not.  Suddenly  the  thought  that  had 
lived  with  her  all  day  jumped  out  through  her  lips. 

'*  Perhaps  .  .  .  after  all  ...  it  wouild  be  better  if  we 
wrote  —  if  we  got  it  over." 

There  was  a  little  pause  before  Hilary  said  gently,  "  I 
thought  dear,  we  had  settled  all  that." 

**  I  know,  but  somehow,  now  that  he  is  really  coming 
back.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  go  into  it  all  again,  Deirdre  darling," 
Hilary  broke  out.  "Don't  think,  don't  think.  .  .  ."  He 
pulled  her  up  to  him,  his  lips  on  her  hair.  "Sweetheart, 
don't,  don't  rake  it  all  up  again.  It'll  rub  the  bloom  off.  And 
I  want  it  not  rubbed  off.  .  .  .  We've  been  so  happy."  He  was 
appalled,  somehow,  by  this  sudden  unexpected  collapse  of  her 
—  the  strong  partner  in  this  bid  for  happiness,  the  happiness 
neither  of  them  was  entitled  to.  These  things  happen.  .  .  . 


STORM-WRACK  165 

He  pushed  up  her  chin  with  his  own  and  kissed  her  drooping, 
moody  mouth. 

"  Stop  being  unhappy,  Deirdre.  It's  a  crime  —  being  un- 
happy when  we're  together.  Stop  it,  stop  it.  .  .  ." 

Her  arms  closed  about  him:  beneath  his  lips  he  felt  hers 
tremble. 

4 

And  there  was  the  Saturday  at  Kew.  .  .  . 

That  was  memorable  for  the  encounter  they  had  in  the  tube 
with  Lucy  and  John  and  for  what  came  afterwards.  Originally 
it  had  been  a  sextette  that  was  going  to  Kew  (Hilary  and  Hel- 
ena, Phil  and  Evey  and  Ronnie  and  Pamela,  or  rather,  the  first 
four  of  them  had  planned  a  quartette  and  Ronnie  and  Pamela 
had  somehow  got  added).  But  on  the  afternoon  the  quartette 
waited  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  at  Charing  Cross  Station  for 
half  an  hour,  and  then  only  Ronnie  turned  up.  No  Pamela. 
Ronnie  was  sorry  they  had  been  kept  waiting  but  the  fact  was 
he  had  picked  Pamela  up  at  the  Chelsea  Town  Hall  and  they 
had  got  into  a  taxi.  Half-way  down  the  King's  Road  they  had 
run  over  a  dog  and  Pamela  had  been  sick  in  the  cab,  and  the 
driver  had  been  horribly  disagreeable  about  it.  Hilary  con- 
ceded that  taxi-drivers  were  a  pampered  class,  and  Ronnie  went 
back  to  the  chemist's  shop  where  he  had  left  Pamela  to  recover. 
So  four  instead  of  six  people  went  on  to  Kew,  and  Hilary  said 
it  was  a  pity  Pamela  couldn't  control  her  stomach  better,  or 
at  least  that  she  couldn't  control  it  with  more  consideration 
for  other  people. 

"  Don't  be  absurd,"  Helena  expostulated.  "  You  can't  help 
being  sick."  And  Hilary  said,  "  Pamela  can.  Also,  she  can 
sick  when  she  likes,  and  that's  a  disgusting  habit." 

The  District,  as  it  always  is,  was  crowded  that  afternoon  and 
the  quartette  broke  up.  Evey  and  Helena  found  seats  with 
difficulty,  not  quite  together,  whilst  Hilary  and  Philip  secured 
straps  and  were  not  to  be  coaxed  by  subsequent  passengers  or 
threatened  by  the  conductors  to  give  them  up.  It  was  a  little 
farther  along  the  line  that  John  and  Lucy  got  in,  and  even  then 
it  might  have  been  all  right  if  the  man  at  Helena's  side  had  not 
made  room  for  Lucy,  who  was  genuinely  pleased  to  see  Helena, 
but  who  said  immediately,  "Lena.  Isn't  that  Mr.  Sargent 


166  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

standing  just  over  there?  "  Lucy  had  only  seen  Hilary  once 
before  (that  afternoon  at  Richmond  not  very  many  weeks  ago), 
but  she  had  an  astounding  memory  for  faces  and  her  sharp 
eyesight  was  likely  to  be  as  inconvenient  as  her  inability  to  keep 
a  still  tongue  in  her  head.  Lircy  wasn't  the  only  person  who 
knew  that  Helena  had  recently  spent  an  afternoon  at  Rich- 
mond with  the  young  man  who  broke  his  arm  at  the  foot  of 
Rattenby  hill.  Before  the  week  was  out  all  these  "  others  " 
would  know  that  on  a  certain  Saturday  in  May  she  had  gone 
with  him  to  Kew. 

But  it  was  less  Lucy  than  John  who  disturbed  Hilary  when, 
later,  things  were  explained  to  him.  Because  John  looked,  so 
Hilary  said,  as  if  his  sense  of  duty  might  be  appalling.  It 
wasn't  pleasant,  somehow,  to  think  that  someone  else  might 
forestall  them  with  Jerome.  At  least,  it  wasn't  pleasant  to 
Helena,  who  thought  it  mattered  mightily  how  we  learn  things. 
Hilary  thought  the  only  thing  that  mattered  was  that  you  did 
learn  them.  He  was  wrong,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  the  sort 
of  "  wrongness "  which  brought  you  peace,  because  Hilary 
could  never  forget  that  Helena  was  continually  concerned  lest 
Jerome  should  be  ejected  from  his  Paradise  at  the  point  of 
Gertrude  or  her  mother's  sense  of  duty.  That  was  why,  on 
this  particular  afternoon,  he  kept  Helena  there  by  a  bed  of  some 
red  plant  with  a  "  churchy "  smell,  while  Evey  and  Phil 
walked  on.  He  wanted  to  prevent  her  from  saying  what  he 
felt  she  was  going  to  say,  and  neither  of  them  was  thinking 
at  all  of  the  queer  plant  though  they  stood  staring  studiously 
down  upon  the  tablet  that  bore  its  name. 

There  suddenly,  in  that  quiet  place,  passion  gripped  Hilary 
by  the  throat. 

"  Not  again,  Deirdre,  for  God's  sake.     I  can't  stand  it." 

They  walked  on  and  overtook  the  others  at  the  Palm  House. 

'*  You  can  walk  up  to  the  top,  you  know,"  Evey  said.  She 
had  been  to  Kew  before. 

"  We  will,"  said  Helena,  and  they  went  in. 

She  looked,  as  they  went,  just  once,  at  Hilary.  That  grip  at 
his  throat  had  relaxed.  He  met  her  glance  and  smiled,  and  as 
they  went  up  the  winding  staircase  caught  her  fingers  and 
squeezed  them  tightly  in  his. 

The  afternoon  went  on  wings.     There  in  that  place  of  green 


STORM-WRACK  167 

and  gold,  happiness  drifted  back  to  them.  It  was  always  like 
that:  nothing  for  long  could  prevent  their  being  happy 
together.  Helena  sat  with  her  knees  tucked  up  under  her 
chin  and  that  cupped  in  her  hand,  staring  (under  instructions) 
at  a  birch  tree  while  Hilary  made  a  colour  sketch  of  her  in  her 
queer  "  modern  art "  voile  dress  of  uncertain  mauve,  dotted 
with  lemon  and  orange  bunches  of  things  that  looked  like 
cherries  and  were  not.  Evey  did  most  of  the  talking  — 
bright,  good-humoured,  feministic  talk,  like  silver  arrows  fall- 
ing across  the  golden  afternoon.  It  was  all  about  the  women 
of  poets  —  of  Milton,  Shakespeare,  Herrick,  Kingsley,  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson.  And  about  Southey  and  Wordsworth  and 
the  advice  they  gave  to  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  how  it  moved 
Charlotte  to  laughter.  And  about  Charlotte  herself,  and  of 
her  and  her  sister  sneaking  up  to  town  under  cover  of  their 
masculine  pseudonyms  to  see  their  publishers;  and  about 
Harriet  Martineau  pushing  her  writing  under  her  needlework 
when  visitors  arrived.  .  .  . 

Once,  in  the  middle  of  it,  Hilary  forgot  and  called  Helena 
by  the  intimate  name  he  kept  for  their  hours  together.  He 
was  conscious  of  Phil's  quick  glance,  of  Evey's  frank  stare 
(that  had  bewilderment,  wonderment  and  glimmering  compre- 
hension in  it),  and  of  Helena  gazing  fixedly  at  the  birch  tree 
before  Phil  picked  up  the  conversation  from  the  pool  of  silence 
into  which  it  had  suddenly  fallen.  He  said,  "  I  don't  know 
if  it's  struck  anyone  else,  but  this  conversation's  been  extraor- 
dinarily interesting  and  extraordinarily  exhausting.  What  do 
you  say  to  tea?  " 

They  trooped  off  to  look  for  it,  to  where,  under  the  trees 
just  past  the  Pagoda,  the  white  tables  gleamed  enticingly  in 
the  sunlight. 

5 

But  on  that  day  it  wasn't  only  the  unfortunate  encounter 
with  Lucy  and  John  and  that  Hilary  called  Helena  "  Deirdre." 
Besides  these  things  there  was  Ursula  Wyatt.  .  .  . 

They  found  her  there  at  the  studio  when  they  got  back, 
along  with  a  lot  of  other  people  and  a  perfume  of  eau-de- 
Cologne  (which  meant  that  Pamela  was  still  engaged  in  being 
an  interesting  invalid).  If  Ursula  was  surprised  to  see  Helena 


168  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

she  gave  no  hint  of  it,  but,  of  course,  she  wasn't  surprised. 
Helena  was  sure  of  that.  Arthur  couldn't  have  kept  as  quiet 
as  all  that!  Ursula  was  in  town  for  a  week  and  Hilary  must 
give  her  some  days.  Helena  tried  not  to  hear  him  doing  it, 
but  when  he  took  Ursula's  arm  and  walked  her  affectionately 
out  through  the  door,  something  hot  and  bitter  sprang  up  in 
Helena's  heart.  Hilary  loved  Ursula  as  he  loved  Arthur. 
The  roots  of  this  affection  went  deep.  What  they  thought 
meant  much  to  him:  what  they  said,  counted.  .  .  . 

When  Hilary  came  back  she  plunged. 

"  Mrs.  Wyatt  doesn't  like  me,"  she  said. 

"What  makes  you  think  that?  " 

"  Lots  of  things.  How  should  she  —  after  the  way  I  be- 
haved about  her  invitations?  I  know  it  was  rude  —  Jerome 
used  to  be  so  angry.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  ...  I  couldn't 
bear  going  there  .  .  .  hearing  her  talk  about  you  —  and  see- 
ing your  pictures.  I'd  have  got  over  it  in  time,  I  suppose,  but 
Mrs.  Wyatt  got  tired  of  asking  me.  I  don't  blame  her." 

Hilary  smiled  upon  her,  touched  her  hand  for  understanding. 

"  But,  Deirdre,  Ursula  wouldn't  dislike  a  person  just  because 
she  didn't  show  an  overwhelming  fondness  for  her  society." 

"  No,  but  she  might  if  she  showed  an  overwhelming  fondness 
for  yours." 

"  I  think  that's  unfair,  Deirdre." 

"  I  know.  But  there  is  —  us,  isn't  there?  Mrs.  Wyatt 
knows  that,  doesn't  she?  " 

Misery  sat  in  her  heart,  and  resentment,  that  this  should  be 
all  that  was  left  of  her  happy  day  down  there  in  the  sun  at 
Kew. 

"  I  haven't  told  her,  Deirdre.  I  haven't  told  anybody.  No- 
body knows  anything.  Ronnie  may  have  guessed  —  and  Ar- 
thur, perhaps." 

"  Of  course  Arthur's  guessed.  And  he's  passed  it  on  to 
Mrs.  Wyatt." 

'Well,  and  what  then?  " 

'  They'll  disapprove." 

'  Not  necessarily.     And  disapproved  the  wrong  word." 

*  What  is  the  word,  then?" 

'  I  don't  know.     But  not  that." 

'  I  can't  think  of  a  better," 


STORM-WRACK  169 

He  looked  at  her.     Her  face  was  hard. 

"  Dear,  they  only  want  to  be  sure." 

"  Of  me?  " 

"  Of  us."     He  pressed  her  hand.     "  Silly  .  .  .  silly." 

It  was  their  familiar  intimate  formula.  She  smiled  as  he 
squeezed  her  fingers  up  tightly  in  his  own.  She  tried  to  see  it 
as  he  saw  it.  It  was  difficult,  and  yet,  after  all,  Arthur  and 
Ursula  would  know  all  about  that  old  story,  and  how  Hilary- 
felt  about  it,  and  you  might  excuse  them,  perhaps,  for  their 
caution. 

The  hard  look  died  out  of  her  face.  But  as,  with  an  effort, 
she  began  to  talk  about  something  else,  she  told  herself  never- 
theless that  now  it  wasn't  only  Arthur  she  had  to  placate  but 
Ursula.  And  she  didn't  —  oh  God,  she  didn't  want  to  placate 
anybody ! 

6 

But  far  worse  then  any  of  these  things  was  the  evening  of 
Jerome's  birthday  letter.  The  birthday  was  Helena's  —  her 
twenty-fourth  —  and  Jerome  had  anticipated  the  event  by  a 
couple  of  days.  His  letter  said  little  because  (though  Helena 
didn't  think  of  this)  it  wanted  to  say  so  much  and  from  it  a 
folded  slip  of  paper  fluttered  down  upon  the  floor.  Helena 
left  it  there,  lacking  the  courage  to  pick  it  up,  for  she  knew 
what  it  was  —  the  cheque  Jerome  referred  to  in  his  letter,  that 
he  sent  as  his  birthday  gift,  and  with  which  he  wanted  her  to 
buy  herself  "  something  pretty."  "  Something  very  pretty, 
and  don't  wear  it  too  often  until  I  come  home." 

She  picked  the  cheque  up  presently  and  looked  at  it.  "  Pay 
Mrs.  J.  R.  Courtney"  (so  like  Jerome,  not  to  leave  her  her 
initials  —  even  on  a  cheque!)  "Pay  Mrs.  J.  R.  Courtney  the 
sum  of  twenty-five  pounds.  .  .  ."  She  sat  with  it  open  before 
her  staring  at  the  bold  signature,  Jerome  Rutherford  Court- 
ney; noting  the  queer  "r's"  he  made  and  how  carefully  he 
formed  his  figures,  filling  up  the  spaces  between  the  pounds  and 
the  shillings  with  characteristic  caution!  With  the  cheque  in 
her  hand  Helena  sat  there,  motionless,  at  the  window.  Buy 
yourself  something  pretty:  something  very  pretty.  She  could 
almost  hear  Jerome  saying  it.  The  memory  of  his  tricks  of 
speech  tore  bewilderingly  at  her  heart.  She  had  not  expected 


170  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

to  feel  like  this.  She  didn't  want  to  feel  like  it.  She  rebelled 
against  it  horribly,  and  yet  it  remained.  She  did  not  love 
Jerome:  she  had  never  loved  him.  But  he  held  her  —  some 
part  of  her,  not  a  very  important  part,  perhaps,  but  she  could 
not  wholly  escape.  Was  it  the  memory  of  things  done  be- 
tween them,  things  over  and  past:  the  physical  bond,  the  daily 
intimacy  that  was  marriage?  Fool,  to  have  forgotten  —  to 
have  imagined  that  she  could  ever  escape  —  altogether ! 

Later,  when  she  was  in  bed,  the  storm  broke.  She  lay  there 
shaken  with  sobs,  and  crying  —  crying  horribly,  because  love 
waited  for  her  on  the  mountains  and  hands  that  clutched  and 
hurt  held  her  back  down  there  in  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


OUT  of  her  pain  one  thought  emerged.  Jerome  must 
be  told.  The  fact  was  clear  and  one  other  —  that  to 
mention  the  subject  to  Hilary  was  to  call  up  in  his 
face  that  look  she  dreaded,  that  was  apprehension  and  obstinacy 
and  something  else  for  which  there  seemed  be  no  name  at  all. 

But  beneath  it  all  and  around  about  and  above  there  re- 
mained always  this  sense  of  throbbing  happiness  that  nothing 
could  destroy,  because,  besides  it,  there  was  just  nothing  at  all 
that  really  mattered.  Nothing  does  —  when  you  are  as  happy 
as  all  that. 

Other  people  were  happy,  too. 

Evey,  of  course  (looking  more  than  ever,  these  days,  like  a 
tropical  flower),  and  Estelle,  whose  luck  had  turned  most 
unbelievably  from  the  day  when  Desiree  had  descended  upon 
the  Frampton  villa  at  Streatham  and  taken  everything  and 
everybody  by  storm.  Life  sandwiched  itself  suddenly  for 
Estelle  between  days  which  she  spent  with  Desiree  at  her  flat 
in  Maida  Vale  and  days  when  Desiree  stayed  at  Streatham. 
Long-haired  people  (very  queer,  enthusiastic  and  excited, 
according  to  Evey,  who  narrated  these  things)  came  sometimes 
with  Desiree  and  prophesied  great  things  for  Estelle.  Mr. 
Frampton  (poor  little  man!)  did  not  understand  very  much  of 
all  they  said  save  that  his  daughter  was  a  genius,  and  that  was 
a  piece  of  news  he  found  disturbing.  The  showering  of  gen- 
iuses upon  the  world  was  not  at  all  his  idea  of  this  business 
of  having  and  rearing  children,  and  Evey  shrewdly  suspected 
that  he  was  beginning  to  understand  that  a  genius  could  scarcely 
be  expected  to  sit  at  its  father's  knee  and  have  its  head  stroked. 
It  seemed  to  him  (again  according  to  Evey,  who  was  enter- 
taining on  the  subject)  that  it  was  so  much  less  important 
that  the  world  should  acquire  a  genius  than  that  he  should 

171 


172  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

retain  a  daughter;  but  Desiree  tackled  him  and  talked  to  him 
like  any  brother  silk-merchant,  with  the  result  that  he  had 
given  permission  for  Estelle  to  go  to  Germany  at  the  end  of 
the  year.  Desiree  was  to  arrange  everything.  All  the  silk- 
merchant  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  write  the  necessary 
cheques,  but  Evey  was  sure  he  wouldn't  mind  that  because  it 
made  him  happy  to  have  Estelle  there  at  his  knee,  talking  of 
her  plans  and  of  how  sweet  and  dear  and  darling  he  was. 
Estelle,  so  Evey  said,  always  did  get  what  she  wanted.  She 
could  coax  the  man  out  of  the  moon  if  she  really  tried,  or  the 
heart  from  a  cabbage.  .  .  . 

Pamela  was  another  of  the  happy  people.  Here,  at  the  end 
of  May,  she  was  preparing  for  her  marriage  with  Ronnie  in 
the  middle  of  June.  Her  conversation  was  hopelessly  en- 
tangled these  days  in  chiffons  and  satins  and  old  point  lace. 
And  even  if  clothes,  as  a  serious  topic  of  conversation,  had  not 
bored  Helena  quite  hopelessly,  there  were  other  reasons  why 
she  had  decided  that  Ronnie's  beloved  was  rather  like  Thack- 
eray's Beatrix  Esmond.  You  liked  to  look  at  her,  but  were 
rather  relieved,  on  the  whole,  when  you  didn't  have  to  talk 
to  her. 

Ronnie's  happiness  went  without  saying.  It  shouted  at  you, 
compelled  you  to  notice  it.  He  had  taken  to  dropping  in  upon 
Hilary  at  odd  times,  in  the  old  way  that  had  been  so  good: 
and  sometimes  he  brought  Pamela  (with  her  chiffons  and 
laces),  but  either  way  he  must  have  seen  (because  Hilary  so 
obviously  meant  that  he  should)  that  he  gave  him,  these  days, 
a  Helena  for  his  Pamela.  But  the  times  when  Pamela  did  not 
come  Hilary  and  Helena  liked  best:  Helena  because  of  the  chif- 
fon and  old  point-lace  conversation,  and  Hilary  because  then  he 
and  Ronnie  between  them  could  almost  delude  themselves  into 
thinking  that  things  were  the  same  as  ever  —  that  nothing  had 
changed. 

2 

Helena  wondered  sometimes  (in  the  way  you  can,  without 
really  caring  in  the  least,  either  way)  whether  any  member  of 
Hilary's  little  circle  suspected  them  to  be  lovers.  It  seemed  to 
her  (if  you  excepted  Ronnie  and  Arthur,  who,  even  Hilary 
thought,  might  have  "  guessed  ")  at  least  improbable.  She  had 


STORM-WRACK  173 

grown  used  to  living  with  this  "  something  "  strangely  sweet 
and  shy  in  her  heart:  had  learned  to  guard  her  emotions  ut- 
terly, so  that  she  gave  nothing  away,  by  word  or  look.  She 
had  more  success,  here,  than  Hilary,  for  whom  there  were  still 
times  when,  with  other  people  present,  he  simply  dare  not 
glance  in  her  direction. 

So  far,  however,  and  for  the  most  part,  Helena  found  that 
these  friends  of  Hilary's  barely  ruffled  the  surface  of  her 
existence.  They  accepted  her  and  (most  of  them)  admired 
and  liked  her,  but  at  this  stage  it  was  certainly  Hilary  they 
cared  for,  not  her,  for  whom,  indeed,  in  their  busy  varied 
existence  they  did  not  seem  to  have  too  much  room.  The 
qualities  for  which  Helena  might  be  loved  lay  deep:  you  had 
to  dig  to  come  at  them.  Neither  Barbara  nor  Conrad,  nor  any 
of  these  people  who  shared  so  much  charm  and  talent  between 
them,  cared  for  digging  as  an  occupation;  so  that,  as  yet,  few 
of  them  had  come  to  know  the  essential  Helena  Hilary  knew 
and  loved.  With  Nelly  Kenyon  it  was  different.  Nelly  hated 
digging,  too,  but  she  had  the  gift  of  the  diviner;  she  reached 
down  to  the  things  in  Helena  none  of  the  others  so  much  as 
suspected.  You  had,  of  course,  to  except  Ronnie  (who  had 
his  odd  evenings  with  Hilary  to  help  him)  and  Phil  (who 
had  Evey).  To  do  him  justice,  however,  Phil  had  no  sort 
of  objection  to  digging,  but  only  to  digging  in  two  places  at 
once. 

As  for  Helena's  friendship  with  Arthur  Yeomans,  that 
seemed  to  have  advanced  no  further  than  on  that  first  night. 
The  look  he  had  given  her,  hunting  in  a  corner  for  hatpins, 
had  killed  something  between  them  and  created  something  else. 
Or  so  Helena  fancied.  She  had  never  met  him  since  without 
remembering  that  nor  without  realising  that  Arthur  was  not 
on  her  side.  It  was  like  that  she  put  it  to  herself.  Not  their 
side,  but  hers.  It  was  she,  after  all,  who  was  the  intruder. 


Once,  during  the  week  that  followed  the  encounter  in  the 
tube,  Helena  went  down  to  Putney,  partly  because  Lucy  wrote 
to  ask  her,  and  partly  to  see  how  the  land  lay.  It  lay,  appar- 
ently, not  too  comfortably.  Putney  and  Wimbledon,  ob- 


174  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

viously  uneasy,  were  joining  hands.  (For  of  course  Lucy's 
tongue  had  wagged  as  far  as  Wimbledon.)  The  Rev.  John 
was  very  serious  and  rather  tedious.  He  would  ask  Helena  to 
be  careful  —  not  to  endanger  her  good  name,  a  thing  no  woman 
could  afford  to  do.  Did  she  think  that  this  new  friendship,  in 
Jerome's  absence,  was  quite  "nice"?  Wasn't  it,  perhaps, 
just  a  little  improper?  Helena  was  amused,  scenting  the 
Wimbledon  touch,  and  guessed  that  the  word  it  had  really  em- 
ployed had  been  "  fast."  Just  a  common  ordinary  flirtation ! 
That,  she  knew,  was  just  how  the  thing  would  look  to  Gertrude. 

"  Oh,  John !  "  Lucy  had  said.  "  You  know  Lena  wouldn't 
do  anything  wrong,  would  you  Lena,  dear?  " 

This  being  the  sort  of  question  no  one  likes  to  answer,  be- 
cause no  one  really  knows,  Helena  had  left  it  at  that.  But 
somehow,  she  breathed  again,  not  for  herself,  but  for  Jerome. 

And  then,  a  couple  of  days  later,  Edgar  called  for  her  at 
the  office  and  took  her  down  to  the  Savoy  for  lunch.  The  East 
Rokesby  by-election  was  coming  apace,  and  if  she  didn't  happen 
to  be  using  it,  might  he  borrow  the  grey  car?  Helena  never 
did  "happen"  to  be  using  it  (as  Edgar  probably  knew),  and 
beyond  telling  him  he  was  welcome  to  the  car  she  forbore  to 
take  any  further  interest  in  the  East  Rokesby  election.  (Edgar 
was  a  Conservative  and  did  not  believe  that  women  should 
have  votes. )  She  did  not  even  ask  the  date,  which,  as  it  turned 
out,  was  a  pity. 

Edgar  thought  he  had  better  drop  a  line  to  Jerome. 

"You've  his  address?  "  Helena  asked.  She  wanted  to  be 
sure  of  that. 

"  Somewhere.  I  know  he  gave  it  me.  But  I'm  no  good 
with  addresses.  Always  lose  'em,  or  forget  to  make  a  note  of 
'em,  or  something.  You  see  how  useful  you'd  be  if  you'd 
only  come  and  help  me.  Or  have  you  altered  your  mind?  " 
Helena  shook  her  head.  "Ah,  well,  you  may  some  day.  I 
don't  give  up  hopes.  .  .  ."  He  stopped  hunting  through  his 
pocket-book  and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket.  "No,  I  don't 
seem  to  have  it.  Doesn't  matter,  I  can  send  a  line  via  the 
Halifax  people,  anyhow.  Here,  you'd  like  some  chocs, 
wouldn't  you?  " 

While  he  went  for  them,  Helena  reflected  that,  ot  course, 


STORM-WRACK  175 

that  was  where  they  all  had  her.     They  could  all  get  at  Jerome 
"  via  the  Halifax  people." 


Then  something  happened  which  made  it  matter  no  longer 
whether  they  could  or  not. 

It  arose,  in  the  first  place,  through  Hilary's  taking  Helena 
to  look  at  his  picture  in  the  Academy.  (That  was  her  way  of 
putting  it  —  as  though  the  Galleries  at  Burlington  House 
opened  daily  just  to  show  one  little  water-colour  of  a  York- 
shire moor.  That  they  did  show  it,  however,  certainly  justified 
their  existence  to  Helena.)  But  the  misty  colours  of  Hilary's 
Haffington  Ridge  made  her  sad,  created  in  her  that  old  forlorn 
nostalgia  that  converted  London  once  again  into  an  old  man 
of  the  sea  on  her  back.  So  on  the  Sunday  Hilary  took  her 
down  into  Sussex.  They  started  early,  but  the  train  notwith- 
standing was  packed  with  people  bound  for  Brighton  (somehow 
there  always  are  people  bound  for  Brighton!)  and  Hilary, 
who  had  taken  third-class  tickets,  dashed  off  to  change  them, 
came  back  abashed  at  the  queue  he  found  at  the  booking 
office.  Eventually  Helena  and  he  squeezed  into  a  carriage 
occupied  by  a  pair  of  ana;mic  lovers  and  several  families  who, 
by  the  look  of  it,  had  combined  forces  for  the  day.  Hilary 
and  Helena  sat  opposite  each  other,  wedged  in  among  hot  and 
wriggling  children  who  complained  loudly  and  long  because 
they  couldn't  see  the  sea:  and  Hilary,  restlessly  glancing  at 
his  paper,  felt  that  things  had  not  exactly  started  well.  He 
asked  himself  savagely  why,  despite  his  "  third  "  tickets,  they 
hadn't  travelled  "  first "  and  paid  excess.  (The  truth  of  that, 
however,  was  that  Hilary  hated  explaining  a  situation  of  this 
kind  to  railway  ticket-collectors  and  preferred,  on  consider- 
ation, the  discomforts  that  he  knew  to  the  sarcasms  he  could 
anticipate.)  But  Helena,  undisturbed,  sat  tall  and  straight  in 
her  seat,  and  his  heart  glowed  with  the  sense  of  her,  and  with  a 
wild  delight  of  her  rose-pink  face.  He  could  smell  the  faint 
thin  scent  of  the  roses  at  her  waist  —  a  scent  that  was  like 
Helena  herself,  sweet  and  virgin.  (That  was  how  he  had 
thought  of  her  first:  virgin  to  the  soul,  like  Diana  on  her 


176  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

mountains,  chaste  and  remote,  untouched  by  the  passion  of 
love.  Save  that  love  had  touched  her  now  it  was  like  that  he 
thought  of  her  still.) 

The  wriggling  child  who  was  obsessed  by  the  idea  of  the  sea 
began  again  on  the  theme.  "  Daddy,  I  want  to  see  the  sea." 
Daddy,  as  befitted  the  male  creature,  went  on  with  his  paper: 
a  fat  woman  with  a  baby  leaned  forward  across  "  daddy  "  and 
shook  the  insistent  one  by  the  knee.  "  Do  you  think  yer  father 
an'  me's  got  the  sea  in  our  pockets?  "  she  demanded.  "Now 
jest  you  shut  up,  and  don't  keep  all  on." 

The  anaemic  girl  said  suddenly  to  her  lover,  "  I  do  hope 
the  taide  will  be  haigh.  It  seems  so  much  more  laike  the  sea  if 
it's  haigh."  The  pale  young  man  sat  a  little  closer  and  smiled. 
In  a  sort  of  ecstasy  he  smiled  for  several  minutes,  his  eyes  on 
the  flying  scenery,  his  hand  smoothing  out  that  of  his  lady, 
who,  too,  gazed  with  an  expression  rapt  and  beatific  out  of  the 
window.  And  Hilary  hated  them.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
democrat  about  him  this  morning.  He  hated  them  all  —  the 
pale  lovers,  the  overworked  mothers  and  fathers,  and  the  wrig- 
gling children  —  especially  the  obsessionist,  who  suddenly 
created  an  unexpected  diversion  by  bursting  into  heart-rending 
sobs. 

It  was  Helena  who  offered  the  despairing  one  comfort. 
"  You  cheer  up,"  she  said,  "  I  know  for  a  fact  the  sea's  still 
there.  It  always  is,  you  know.  You  can  always  depend  on 
the  sea.  You  hang  on  to  that.  What  do  you  say  to  a  piece 
of  chocolate?  Do  you  think  that  would  help?  " 

Hilary  understood  that  the  cake  of  Peter's  in  the  luncheon 
basket  was  here  being  delicately  referred  to.  He  got  up  and 
raked  it  out  and  then  tried  to  be  large-minded  about  it  as  he 
watched  Helena  distribute  it  among  the  round-eyed  voyagers 
to  the  sea.  It  wasn't  only  that  he  had  bought  it  for  her;  he 
was  horribly  afraid  they  would  be  sick.  They  gobbled  it  up  in 
such  haste,  and  he  was  convinced  it  was  better  they  should  cry 
than  that  they  should  be  sick.  .  .  .  However,  he  and  Helena 
arrived  at  their  station  before  Nemesis  descended  upon  the 
chocolate-eaters.  They  left  them  happily  gloating  over  the 
last  precious  morsels;  and  Hilary,  out  on  the  platform,  took  a 
deep  breath. 


STORM-WRACK  177 

"  Good  lord,  what  a  journey!  "  he  said.  "  Didn't  it  get  on 
your  nerves?  " 

And  she  laughed  at  him.  "  I  haven't  any  nerves  this  morn- 
ing," she  said,  "  have  you?  " 

Out  there  in  the  pretty  day  "  nerves  "  was  suddenly  a  very 
ugly  and  very  sinister  word.  How  could  he  possibly  have 
nerves  when  they  were  going  to  spend  a  whofc  day  together  in 
open  country? 

"  I  shan't  have  soon,"  he  answered  her.  "  But  it  was  all 
wrong  —  in  there.  I  suppose  I  can't  be  .  thorough-going 
democrat  because  I  do  so  hate  crowds  and  trams  and  packed 
third-class  railway  carriages." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  proves,"  she  said,  "  save  that  you 
don't  go  in  them  often  enough." 

He  put  an  arm  through  hers  and  they  took  the  upland  patch 
together.  It  was  barely  half-past  eight.  Like  a  white  sheet 
of  paper  on  which  they  might  write  what  they  would  the  whole 
day  lay  stretched  out  before  them. 


Half  an  hour  later  it  was  not  the  day  alone  but  the  whole 
world  that  they  seemed  to  have  to  themselves  up  there  on  a 
shoulder  of  the  great  Downs  across  which  the  wind  raced,  tem- 
pering the  hot  sun.  They  sat  close,  and  looked  out  over  the 
coloured  counties.  Helena's  pink  roses  drooped  now  at  her 
waist,  and  she  took  them  out  and  held  them  up  to  the  fierce 
embrace  of  the  Sussex  wind.  Hilary  watched  the  delicate 
petals  borne  out  afar  on  the  arms  of  the  wind.  Saw,  too,  that 
in  the  blazing  sunlight  Helena's  hair  was  a  fire  a  man  might 
warm  his  hands  at. 

"  I  must  always  kiss  you  when  the  sun  shines  on  your  hair," 
he  said.  And  he  did. 

It  was  long  after  that  when  she  said,  "  Read  to  me,"  and  lay 
stretched  out  slim  and  straight,  beneath  the  sun  and  wind, 
with  her  arms  above  her  head  and  her  eyes  shut,  while  he  read 
to  her  things  she  knew  and  things  she  didn't  from  de  la  Mare, 
Drinkwater,  Gould,  Hodgson  and  (most  appropriately)  Hil- 
aire  Belloc.  And  there  was  Flecker  and  Brooke  and  Frances 


178  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Cornford  and  Lady  Margaret  Sackville;  and  Dora  Sigerson 
whom  Helena  loved. 

Thoughts  not  wholly  of  the  poems,  however,  came  to  her  as 
he  read,  and  the  realisation  that  there  was  about  Hilary  some- 
thing that  satisfied  as  nothing  and  no  one  else  could  do.  He 
reached  out  to  a  part  of  her  that  Jerome  had  never  got  within 
a  hundred  miles  i  f.  Nothing  Hilary  could  say  or  do  would 
ever  alter  that.  1  e  satisfied  her  —  held  her.  He  could  raise 
and  he  could  cast  ot own.  He  could  make  her  happy  —  he  could 
make  her  miserab  e.  Happiness  and  misery  were  bound  up 
now  with  him.  fc  ?  held  the  keys.  She  sat  up  suddenly  and 
looked  at  him,  wa  ching  him  as  he  read.  It  pleased  her  that 
he  looked  big  and  "  fit,"  that,  strong  as  she  was,  he  could  pull 
her  bodily  up  against  him  from  the  grass  just  by  lightly  grip- 
ping her  wrists.  It  was  a  trick  he  was  fond  of,  and  holding 
her  so  he  would  kiss  her,  so  that  even  if  she  wished  she  could 
not  escape.  A  hint  of  mastery  here,  a  hint,  too,  of  the  desire  to 
be  mastered.  What  had  the  feminist  in  her  to  say  to  that?  It 
bowed  its  head,  not  in  submission  but  in  comprehension.  For 
one  was  not  taken,  one  gave.  One  possessed  and  was  possessed. 
That  alone  was  love  and  the  rest  was  lies! 


It  was  Hilary  who  suggested,  much  later,  that  they  should 
take  in  Yewhurst  village  on  their  way  home.  He  wanted,  after 
the  passage  of  years,  to  see  how  the  old  place  looked.  It  was 
half-past  six  when  they  arrived  and  discovered  that  the  last 
London  train  calling  at  Yewhurst  on  Sundays  was  the  seven 
forty-one.  That  gave  them  just  an  hour  in  which  to  look 
round. 

It  wasn't,  they  soon  saw,  going  to  be  anything  like  enough. 
There  was  so  much  to  see,  and  some  things  took  so  much  time. 

Yewhurst  Lodge,  however,  Hilary  found  disappointing.  In 
some  queer  fashion  it  had  shrunk  with  the  passing  of  the  years. 
The  garden  was  smaller  and  the  yew  trees:  the  long  windows 
from  which  he  had  stepped  down  to  the  lawn  less  wide  and 
imposing.  Only  the  poplars,  waving  on  right  and  left  of  them, 
seemed  unchanged  and  unchanging,  singing  their  eternal  song 
in  the  breeze. 


STORM-WRACK  179 

In  the  centre  of  the  lawn  stood  a  rocking-horse,  painted 
bright  red  and  striped  velvety  green,  as  though  its  maker  had 
his  mind  less  on  a  horse  than  a  zebra;  and  flung  over  its  neck 
for  reins,  was  a  girl's  skipping-rope  disporting  bright  blue 
handles.  A  swing,  built  low  and  with  a  wooden  backed  seat, 
moved  idly  to  and  fro.  From  somewhere  in  the  bushes  came 
the  sound  of  childish  voices,  and  from  an  upper  window  of 
the  house  a  young  woman  looked  down  suddenly  upon  the 
garden  and  called  to  the  children. 

Hilary  and  Helena  went  on,  past  the  house,  down  the  lanes 
where  Hilary  used  to  gather  wild  flowers  with  Ursula,  and 
where  already  the  honeysuckle  had  come  to  bloom.  Up  and 
down  the  winding  road  they  went,  past  the  open  door  of  the 
little  iron  chapel  in  the  valley,  through  which  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  tiny  congregation  singing  a  dismal  hymn  exactly 
one  bar  behind  the  reedy  American  organ  accompaniment. 
Sitting  there  on  the  bank  Hilary  reconstructed  for  Helena  the 
old  story  that  belonged  to  it,  but  it  was  all  so  very  long  ago 
it  had  an  air  of  unreality.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading himself  that  it  was  not  some  queer  tale  he  was  mak- 
ing up  for  Helena's  benefit.  And  "  queer  "  was  just  the  word 
she  would  have  applied  to  it.  Brought  up  in  the  respectable 
atmosphere  of  the  orthodox  church,  the  sterner  sorts  of  noncon- 
formity were  practically  unknown  to  her.  She  had  not  under- 
stood that  religion  could  terrify.  There  was  nothing  terrify- 
ing about  the  Prayer  Book.  It  just  bored  you:  sometimes,  if 
you  were  a  woman,  it  made  you  angry.  Nothing  more.  The 
psychology  of  that  little  story  of  Hilary's  interested  her  so 
much  that  they  sat  talking  of  it  far  too  long  —  longer,  at  least, 
than  was  consonant  with  the  comfortable  catching  of  the  seven 
forty-one. 

As  they  passed  the  Lodge  again  a  tall  quite  youthful  some- 
body was  giving  a  curly  headed  child  a  pickaback,  with  another 
yelling  encouragement  at  his  heels:  and  the  woman  came  back 
to  the  window  and  stood  there  with  the  sun  on  her  hair  and  a 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"Darling,"  she  called  to  the  youthful  "somebody,"  "I 
really  think  they  ought  to  come  in.  .  .  ." 

And  suddenly  Helena  sat  down  beneath  the  neatly-cut  box- 
hedge  and  began  to  cry. 


180  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


That,  of  course  —  and  Helena's  interest  in  the  psychology  of 
an  old  story  —  explains  why  the  seven  forty-one  went  without 
them. 

If  they  walked  on  to  Threppington  they'd  find  (so  a  sym- 
pathetic porter  informed  them)  that  there  was  an  eight-thirty 
"  main  up,"  but  they'd  have  to  do  a  steady  pace  of  five  miles  an 
hour  if  they  wanted  to  catch  it.  Threppington  was  barely 
three  and  a  half,  and  the  porter  was  of  the  opinion  that  they'd 
a  very  good  "  sporting  chance "  if  they  set  off  at  once  and 
"  stepped  it  out." 

But  they  did  neither.  For  suddenly  it  seemed  ridiculous 
that  they  should  spend  so  beautiful  an  evening  hurrying  to 
catch  a  train  when  the  next  day  was  Bank  Holiday,  and  there 
was  no  urgent  need  that  they  should  catch  it  at  all.  Besides, 
there  was  going  to  be  a  perfectly  glorious  sunset,  and  there  was 
a  pine  wood  Hilary  wanted  to  show  Helena  and  which  she 
would  love. 

"  It  isn't  as  though  Bletchington  will  be  tearing  his  hair 
because  of  you,"  Hilary  pointed  out.  "Even  he  will  be  tak- 
ing a  holiday.  Nobody  wants  you  at  all  to-morrow  —  but  me. 
Don't  smile.  It  may  be  ungrammatical  and  not  very  compli- 
mentary, but  it's  true." 

It  was.  It  was,  in  fact,  so  very  true,  that  Helena  did  not 
trouble  to  deny  it.  She  agreed  to  let  the  "  sporting  chance  " 
(what  there  was  of  it)  look  after  itself,  and  Hilary  went  off  to 
send  a  telegram  in  her  name  to  Mrs.  Rogers.  His  mind  was 
still  sufficiently  detached  from  the  sunset  and  the  pine  wood 
to  make  him  see  the  incontrovertible  wisdom  of  that.  He 
wasn't  going  to  spoil  things.  They  were  going,  both  of  them, 
to  be  proper  and  decent  and  careful  —  damnably  careful.  He 
would  find  a  bedroom  at  some  cottage  for  Helena  (because 
she  liked  cottages  if  the  windows  would  open)  and  book  an- 
other for  himself  at  the  "Loyal  Heart."  And  they'd  have 
their  meals  together  at  the  inn  like  any  respectable  engaged 
suburban  couple.  Or  hadn't  suburban  youth  got  as  far  as 
that?  Anyway,  they  were  going  to  be  happy  —  gloriously 
happy.  They  were  going  to  have  a  whole  day  of  it. 

He  thought  of  all  this  while  he  wrote  out  the  telegram,  and 


STORM-WRACK  181 

the  postmistress,  with  a  languid  air,  counted  the  number  of 
words  and  said  the  message  would  cost  him  sevenpence  ha'- 
penny, please.  She  was  a  fair  young  woman  with  a  bored 
manner,  which  was  why  Hilary  thought  better  of  his  impulse 
to  ask  where  that  airy  bedroom  might  be  found  and  went  out 
to  look  for  it  himself.  Luckily  it  did  not  take  him  long,  and 
having  settled  things  with  the  old  lady  with  the  apple-ripe 
face,  to  whom  the  room  belonged,  he  went  off  to  the  inn. 

There  were  new  people  at  the  "  Loyal  Heart  "  since  Hilary's 
days,  but  they  were  obliging,  and  with  the  minimum  of  in- 
terrogation undertook  to  provide  meals  for  him  and  Helena 
on  the  morrow,  and  supper  that  evening  if  they  required  it. 
Hilary  decided  that  they  would,  and  having  washed  his  hands 
and  face  in  a  bathroom  tucked  modestly  away  in  a  corner, 
as  though  it  hoped  nobody  would  discover  it,  he  went  back 
for  Helena. 

Later,  he  sat  outside  the  cottage  on  a  green  bank  and  smoked 
a  pipe,  whilst  inside  Helena  was  engaged  in  being  pleased  with 
things,  and  revelling  in  the  prospect  of  soft  water  for  her  face 
and  a  stiff  brush  for  her  hair.  The  apple-faced  old  lady,  who 
did  not  look  at  her  hands  and  apparently  hadn't  heard  her 
name,  called  her  "  dearie,"  and  brought  her  a  glass  of  milk  to 
drink.  Upstairs  on  a  snow-white  bed  she  had  laid  out  a  night- 
dress of  her  own  that  delighted  Helena,  for  it  smelt  of  lavender 
and  the  winds  of  heaven.  She  was  convinced  that  the  old  lady 
thought  she  and  Hilary  were  engaged,  and  that  she  considered 
it  rather  nice  of  him  to  take  himself  off  like  that  to  the  inn. 

Helena  drank  her  milk,  washed,  brushed  her  hair  and  went 
down  to  the  little  white  gate  of  the  cottage  opposite  which 
Hilary  awaited  her. 

8 

They  took,  presently,  the  path  that  skirted  Hilary's  wood  to 
the  top  of  the  hill,  where  a  breeze  came  to  them  scented  with 
pine  and  honeysuckle  and  the  sweetness  of  wild  briar.  Al- 
ready the  wood  looked  dim  and  mysterious,  the  pine  trees 
standing  up  tall  and  straight  against  a  gold  and  mauve  sky 
slashed  fiercely  with  reds.  It  was  very  still :  no  sound  came  at 
all  save  for  the  occasional  call  of  a  bird  or  the  scurrying  of 


182  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

some  woodland  animal.  Through  the  flat  pine  branches  the 
sunset  burned  fast  to  its  end,  and  the  wide  path  that  ran  down 
the  centre  of  the  wood  wandered  away  into  shadow  like  a 
dream  into  forgetfulness.  Quite  soon  now  the  dusk  would 
fall,  covering  everything  like  a  blue-grey  garment.  .  .  . 

Helena  watched  the  shadows  steal  up  almost  sullenly  over  the 
gold-flushed  sky:  saw  the  colder  tints  creep  up  and  master  the 
mauves  and  reds,  and  suddenly  she  could  think  of  nothing  save 
that  here  night  would  come  marvellously  —  like  a  purple  pas- 
sion flower,  and  that  before  it  came  she  and  Hilary  would  have 
to  turn  and  go  back  down  the  hill.  Care!  Care!  The  chill 
word  was  like  some  poor  ghost  shivering  before  them  in  the 
evening  air. 

They  stood  there  on  the  edge  of  things,  holding  their  breath, 
and  feeling,  as  they  had  felt  all  day,  that  they  had  the  world 
to  themselves,  that  nobody  else  was  alive  at  all.  The  blood 
raced  headlong  in  their  veins;  they  could  scarcely  look  at  each 
other  because  of  it.  The  spirit  of  adventure,  of  daring,  stirred 
about  them  like  the  blue  night,  and  they  knew  that  they  might 
be  as  careful  and  as  "  decent "  as  they  chose  without  altering 
that  in  the  least. 

Behind  them,  down  the  white  road,  a  grey  motor-car  ran 
swiftly  towards  the  village.  They  did  not  look  round.  The 
way  was  clear  and  the  driver  did  not  disturb  the  quiet  with  the 
sound  of  his  horn.  But  in  the  car  sat  a  man  who  never  missed 
a  feminine  figure  with  the  least  pretensions  to  grace.  Helena's 
white  frock  on  the  dark  edge  of  the  wood  caught  his  eye  and 
held  it.  And  evidently  not  the  frock  only,  for  he  smiled  and 
nudged  the  woman  at  his  side,  who  turned  and  followed  his 
gaze  with  her  own.  They  sat  there,  the  two  of  them,  as  if  pet- 
rified, craning  their  necks  to  stare  back  at  that  couple  stand- 
ing, with  clasped  hands,  on  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

And  as  they  stared  they  saw  Hilary  slip  his  arm  about  Hel- 
ena's waist  and  draw  her  more  deeply  into  the  shadow. 


On  the  following  morning  there  was  the  car  again. 
To  Helena  it  was  not  a  car  at  all,  but  a  sleek  grey  beast,  a 
sleuthhound  tracking  them  down.     For  this  time  she  saw  it. 


STORM-WRACK  183 

They  were  emerging,  she  and  Hilary,  from  the  porch  of  the 
"Loyal  Heart,"  and  her  arm  was  tucked  into  his.  They  had 
just  finished  breakfast  and  had  come  straight  out  into  the  sun- 
light as  they  were,  hatless.  It  took  Helena  just  a  second  to 
take  it  all  in  —  Edgar  driving,  and  Gertrude  sitting  straight 
and  stiff  at  his  side,  with  a  motor-veil  of  green  floating  wide  in 
the  morning  breeze  like  a  banner.  The  colours  of  Edgar's 
parliamentary  party  floated  with  it  and  suddenly  Helena  un- 
derstood, cursing  herself  because  she  had  not  asked  Edgar 
where  East  Rokesby  was  and  the  date  of  its  by-election.  If 
Edgar  had  told  her  these  things  she  had  not  listened.  Well, 
now  they  had  seen.  Appearances  were  dead  against  her.  She 
knew  Gertrude.  Gertrude  would  be  certain  to  imagine  the 
worst.  The  worst!  Something  somewhere  in  Helena  laughed 
softly  at  that:  something  else  said:  "  Oh,  what  does  it  matter? 
They've  got  to  know  some  time!  "  And  she  didn't  care.  For 
herself  she  didn't  care  a  scrap  and  she  wasn't  going  this  morn- 
ing to  think  of  Jerome.  Neither  was  she  going  to  remember 
that  Gertrude  and  Edgar  and  all  of  them  could  always  get  at 
Jerome  (and  at  her!)  if  they  wished,  via  "the  people  at  Hal- 
ifax." .  .  . 

Up  there  in  the  woods  Hilary  began  to  make  a  sketch  of  her 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  Book  of  Modern  Verse,  and  every  now  and 
then  as  she  watched  his  happy  face  as  he  worked  she  wondered 
what  he  would  say  if  he  knew  —  that,  which  she  knew.  But 
she  wasn't  going  to  tell  him  —  at  least,  not  yet,  because  it 
might  spoil  their  day,  and  it  was  so  tremendously  important, 
somehow,  that  their  day  should  not  be  spoiled. 

10 

They  got  back  to  the  studio  that  evening  at  half-past  seven, 
because  Hilary  was  expecting  some  remnant  at  least  of  his 
Crowd.  At  half-past  seven,  however,  only  Arthur  Yeomans 
had  arrived.  Helena  left  him  and  Hilary  talking  together  and 
went  into  Hilary's  bedroom  to  wash  and  tidy  her  hair. 
Through  the  closed  door  she  could  hear  voices,  one  low  and, 
as  it  seemed  to  her,  admonitory,  the  other  a  trifle  querulous 
and  excited.  Brushing  her  hair  there  before  Hilary's  oval 
glass  her  mouth  hardened.  They  stood,  she  and  Hilary,  on  the 


184  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

edge  of  the  crag,  and  though  it  made  them  dizzy  they  could  pre- 
serve their  balance,  could  stand  there  looking  below.  Arthur 
would  imagine  they  could  not:  doubtless  it  was  something  of 
this  sort  he  was  saying  now  to  Hilary.  She  flung  up  her 
head  in  fierce  pride  of  her  own  strength.  Arthur  knew  noth- 
ing. And  the  die  was  cast.  Nothing  that  he  could  say  was 
going  to  make  any  difference.  Let  him  talk.  .  .  . 

She  twisted  up  her  hair  in  the  loose  way  Hilary  liked  best; 
twitched  her  frock  into  position,  wished  it  were  fresher  and 
opened  the  door.  And  then  the  end  of  what  Arthur  was 
saying  hit  her  like  a  blow  between  the  eyes.  She  stood  still 
for  a  moment,  with  the  handle  of  the  door  in  her  hand. 
Neither  of  the  men  saw  her  there.  Arthur  was  sitting,  cross- 
kneed,  on  the  settee,  his  eyes  on  Hilary,  who  stood  with  his 
back  to  Helena,  his  elbow  on  the  mantelshelf. 

"  My  dear  boy,  don't  talk  rot.  You  know  you  can  stop  it  if 
you  like." 

And  Hilary  said  in  a  voice  Helena  scarcely  recognised,  "  I 
wish  to  God  you'd  tell  me  how.  .  .  ." 

She  made  a  sudden  noise  with  the  door  and  came  forward. 
From  a  long  way  off  she  heard  Hilary  asking  her  if  she  felt 
refreshed,  and  then  he  disappeared  and  she  was  sitting  at 
Arthur  Yeomans's  side  talking  politely  of  God  knew  what. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

1  ' 

GERTRUDE  moved  quickly.  Her  note  inviting  Helena 
to  dinner  came  on  the  Wednesday  morning,  and  it 
read,  Helena  thought,  very  much  like  a  command  to 
Buckingham  Palace.  She  was  not  so  much  invited  to  dinner  as 
threatened  with  it,  and  the  scolding  she  was  going  to  swallow 
with  the  meal  rose  up  out  of  the  heart  of  Gertrude's  curt  little 
paragraph  and  stared  at  her. 

It  happened  just  now  that  Mr.  Bletchington  was  at  a  Ger- 
man spa,  whither  he  had  betaken  himself  for  rest  and  reduc- 
tion, so  that  there  was  no  reason  why  Helena  should  not  have 
left  the  office  in  time  to  go  home  and  change  her  frock.  (These 
things  mattered  at  "  The  Laurels.")  But  Helena  would  not 
go  home:  she  would  go  to  her  lecture,  but  she  certainly  was 
not  going  to  dress  for  it. 

The  meal  was  a  queer  one,  with  the  conversation  going  on 
stilts  until  Gertrude's  trim  parlourmaid  left  them  with  ciga- 
rettes, a  pile  of  fruit  and  a  silver  dish  of  chocolates.  In  the 
little  pause  that  ensued,  Helena  helped  herself  to  a  cigarette 
and  lit  up  with  aplomb.  "  I  thought  you  hated  smoke,"  Ger- 
trude said  and  was  mystified  by  Helena's  cool  "  I  do,  but 
I've  learnt  to  smoke  in  self-defence."  Truth  to  tell  Helena 
was  beginning  to  enjoy  herself.  She  found  that  the  situation 
had  its  humour,  especially  with  Gertrude  kicking  off  for  the 
proprieties  and  peeling  herself  an  apple  whilst  she  did  so. 

Gertrude  was  very  angry,  very  scornful  and  definitely  threat- 
ening. But  she  achieved  nothing  and  after  a  time  she  rose 
in  her  wrath  and  left  Helena  to  Edgar. 

"  I  give  you  up,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps,  Edgar,  you  can  make 
her  see  reason." 


185 


186  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


He  didn't.     But  then  he  didn't  try  very  hard.     He  started 
wrongly,  of  course,  by  changing  the  subject. 
"  You  know  I'm  « in,'  Lena?  " 

Lena  did  know  that.  She  had  read  as  much  in  her  Daily 
News  that  morning.  Her  brother-in-law  was  "  in  "  by  a  ma- 
jority that  had  made  her  despair  of  humanity,  as  though  she 
was  coming  to  believe,  with  Phil,  that  politics  counted.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  returning  Jerome's  car  to  the  garage  to-morrow," 
Edgar  went  on.  "  It's  been  no  end  useful.  You  were  a  good 
sort,  Lena,  to  hand  it  over.  All  the  same,  I  can't  think  why 
the  devil  you  don't  want  to  use  it  yourself." 

"  I  think  Fownes  cured  me  of  my  passion  for  motoring," 
Helena  said.  "  Motoring  for  Fownes  meant  records  and  short 
cuts,  the  edges  of  ponds  and  angles  of  forty-five  degrees.  It 
gets  monotonous  after  a  time,  you  know." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  get  the  car  out  and  learn  to  drive  it 
yourself?  " 

Helena  threw  down  the  stump  of  her  cigarette  and  smiled 
at  him. 

**  Do  you  know,  Edgar,"  she  said,  "  you  sometimes  have 
quite  brilliant  ideas.     I  believe  I  will  —  if  I  can  find  time." 
**  Does  Bletchington  keep  you  busy?  " 
"Yes,  rather." 
"  Other  people,  too,  eh  ?  " 
"A  few  — yes." 
Pause. 

Then,  "  I  say,  Lena,  may  I  ask  you  what  Bletchington  gives 
you?  " 

"  No,  you  mayn't,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  Two- 
fifteen." 

Edgar  got  up  and  came  and  sat  on  the  table,  very  near  her. 
"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  come  to  me.  I'm  going  to  be 
horribly  busy  for  the  next  three  months.  If  Jerome  gets 
through  and  is  back  before  then  we  can  fix  something  up  with 
him.  He  won't  mind,  I  know,  and  I'll  give  you  two-fifty  a 
year." 

Helena  gasped,  though  she  managed  to  look  as  though  she 
hadn't. 


STORM-WRACK  187 

"  Two-fifty,"  she  said.  "  That's  nearly  five  pounds  a  week, 
isn't  it?  " 

"  Exactly  £4  16s.  134d.     Or  £20  16s.  8d.  a  month." 

"Very  tempting.     But  I  think  I  won't  take  it  on,  thanks." 

"  Well,  think  it  over.     We'd  like  to  have  you  here." 

Helena  smiled.     "You  mean  you  would?  " 

Edgar  grinned  and  put  his  hand  on  hers,  lying  white  and 
smooth  on  his  polished  dining-room  table.  The  Holmeses 
dined  with  lace  mats  under  their  plates  .and  no  cloth,  because 
at  the  moment  cloths  were  not  fashionable. 

"Well,  you  know,  kiddie,  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you.  Al- 
ways have  been  —  right  from  the  first  time  I  set  eyes  on  you." 

She  was  very  still,  keeping  him  at  bay  with  her  eyes.  He 
went  on. 

"That's  why  I  want  you  to  be  careful  over  this  other 
affair."  He  came  back  to  it  with  a  rush  —  seemed  to  realise 
that  Gertrude  had  left  them  that  he  might  make  Helena  "  see 
reason."  He  could  have  found  pleasanter  ways  of  spending 
that  interval  together.  .  .  . 

"  The  trouble  is,  kiddie,  that  Gertrude  may  take  it  into  her 
head  to  write  to  your  mother  —  may  conceive  it  her  duty,  I 
mean.  Though  what  good  that  would  do.  ...  You  see, 
they're  both  so  attached  to  Jerome." 

Helena's  eyes  narrowed. 

"  You  mean,"  she  said,  helping  herself  to  a  chocolate,  "  that 
probably  they  may  conceive  it  their  duty,  between  them,  to 
write  to  Jerome." 

Edgar  said,  "  Well,  you  never  know.  It's  just  as1  well  to  be 
careful.  It  was  a  mad  thing  to  go  and  stay  at  Yewhurst  that 
week-end  of  all  others,  with  East  Rokesby  only  a  couple  of 
miles  or  so  away.  Surely  I  told  you  the  date,  and  if  I  didn't 
there  were  the  papers.  Not  that  I  look  at  it  as  Gertrude  does. 
I  don't  see  why  a  woman  —  a  pretty  woman,  like  you  — 
shouldn't  have  her  fling  as  much  as  a  man  if  she  wants  it. 
What's  a  kiss  or  two,  after  all?  He's  a  lucky  devil,  anyway, 
who  gets  your  kisses.  They're  so  damn  scarce." 

He  bent  down  so  that  his  moustache  brushed  her  hair. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  they're  going  ...  to  get  ... 
scarcer." 

"Are  they?  "he  said. 


188  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

She  could  feel  him  about  her  like  an  atmosphere  —  knew  that 
he  kissed  the  top  of  her  head.  She  sat  very  still.  Her  hand 
lay  supine  there  on  the  polished  black  oak.  She  heard  him 
breathing  heavily  above  her;  got,  through  the  tobacco  smoke, 
a  whiff  of  the  scent  he  affected.  Something  inside  her  said: 
"  What  am  I  doing?  Is  this  flirtation?  "  Then  Edgar's  hand 
descended  upon  hers  and  the  spell  was  broken.  She  slipped 
out  of  her  seat  and  pulled  her  hand  free. 

"  What  about  that  coffee?  "  she  said,  "  And  Lucy  tells  me 
you've  got  a  new  Orchestrelle.  Come  and  play  something  to 
me.  Got  any  Chopin?  " 

Edgar  hadn't.  With  his  hand  pressing  the  soft  flesh  of  her 
finely  moulded  arm  he  offered  her  Beethoven  and  Tschaikowsky 
as  a  substitute. 

The  trim  parlourmaid  had  just  taken  in  the  coffee  to  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  black  and  served  in  pale  mauve  cups. 
And  while  Helena  admired  the  excellent  colour-scheme  and 
enjoyed  the  coffee  which  helped  to  create  it,  Edgar  moved  some 
queer  little  levers  on  a  shining  black  grand  and  produced  a  not 
altogether  faultless  rendering  of  the  Sonata  Appassionato  and, 
later,  the  Sonata  Pathetique,  for  the  Orchestrelle  was  new  and 
as  yet  Edgar's  manipulation  of  the  levers  was  a  trifle  amateur. 
He  pulled  up,  however,  on  the  Tschaikowsky:  gave  her,  quite 
creditably,  the  Chanson  Triste  and,  afterwards,  the  Casse  Nois- 
ette suite. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  Casse  Noisette  that  Helena  lighted 
her  third  cigarette  and  hoped  devoutly  that  she  wouldn't  be 
sick. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 


JEROME  must  be  told. 
That  thought  pursued  her,  because  if  she  did  not  write 
Gertrude  would.     Gertrude  meant  business,  and  it  availed 
Helena  nothing  that  she  could  manage  Edgar  because  Edgar 
(here,  and  so  obviously)   could  not  manage  Gertrude.     And, 
like  all  the  others,  Gertrude  could  get  at  her  "  via  the  people 
at  Halifax."  .  .  . 

For  all  that,  however,  she  did  not  write,  until  quite  a  week 
later.  She  funked  it  as  much  as  all  that.  And  when  she  did 
write  she  took  her  time  over  it,  drafting  it  out  in  shorthand 
first,  because  one's  thoughts  came  quicker  that  way  and  one 
could  net  them  before  they  escaped.  The  letter  when  it  was 
finished  (even  to  her  own  eyes)  was  a  remarkable  production, 
cool,  concise  and  exact.  It  offered  no  excuse  for  what  had 
happened,  took  no  credit  for  what,  so  far,  had  not.  (K  they 
expected  Jerome  to  be  "  decent "  at  least  they  could  be  "  de- 
cent"  too.)  But  you  could  not  for  ever  fight  against  love: 
you  ceased  to  try  when  once  you  had  recognised  love  for  what 
it  was  —  a  thing  powerful,  despotic  and  beyond  reason.  As 
she  copied  out  her  letter  in  longhand  she  remembered  that  Je- 
rome (though  he  might  at  first  have  rebelled)  had  always  in 
the  end  done  what  she  wanted.  This  was  a  thought  that  com- 
forted her,  when,  with  the  letter  posted,  she  began  to  wonder 
how  Hilary  would  take  it.  Because  Hilary  knew  nothing  about 
it.  Remembering  that  look  on  his  face  that  was  obstinacy  and 
apprehension  and  something  else  that  was  nameless,  she 
simply  had  not  been  able  to  tell  him. 


He  took  it,  as  it  happened,  quite  admirably,  because  now  it 
was  over  and  dene  with.    That  was  what  mattered  —  that  noth- 

189 


190  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

ing  should  come  between  them  and  their  hours  together  in 
the  sun :  that  they  might  take  them  and  be  thankful,  forgetting 
Jerome  hundreds  of  miles  away  in  his  Paradise  of  Fools.  It 
had  almost  seemed  as  if  at  times  that  might  not  be  —  as  if  there 
were  something  in  both  of  them  that  made  it  impossible,  some- 
thing ineradicably  Puritan,  fastidious.  .  .  .  And  now  it  was 
over  and  done  with,  this  thing  that  came  between,  so  that  relief 
surged  up  and  lapped  them  round.  Up  through  the  bright 
June  days  their  love  burned  as  in  some  marvellous  second 
blooming. 

The  week  that  followed  the  dispatching  of  the  letter  was 
one  of  clear  skies  and  sweet  scents;  of  summer  winds;  of 
walks  abroad  in  Surrey  and  in  Bucks;  of  evenings  on  the 
near  reaches  of  the  river  or  on  the  tops  of  'buses  that  went  to 
St.  Albans  or  Epping.  They  were  so  happy  together  that  some- 
times fear  trod  shadowily  upon  their  heels,  padded  along  be- 
hind them.  It  rose  up  out  of  nothing,  terrifyingly,  when  they 
least  expected  it. 

There  was,  particularly,  the  Saturday  evening  when  Hilary's 
friends  were  late  and  he  and  Helena  had  drifted  into  a  Bronte 
talk  after  a  rereading  of  Mr.  Walter  de  la  Mare's  Henry 
Bracken.  They  had  found  themselves  talking,  incongruously, 
of  Emily  Bronte,  who  loved  life  so  well  she  clutched  at  it  to  the 
last.  You  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  it.  ...  And  Hilary  had 
said,  "  I  shall  be  like  that.  I  shall  just  hate  dying.  I  should 
hate  it  at  a  hundred." 

"  Surely,"  Helena  had  objected,  "  one  would  be  glad  to  die 
at  a  hundred." 

"?  shouldn't,  Deirdre." 

"  But  the  poor  old  patriarchs  in  the  Bible  —  old  and  full  of 
years.  Weren't  they  glad  to  die?  " 

"  I'm  sure  they  hated  dying." 

"No,  what  they  hated  was  getting  old.  Emily  Bronte  was 
spared  that,  at  least." 

"  It  isn't  getting  old  that  matters,  Deirdre.  It's  dying  before 
you're  old  .  .  .  before  you've  lived.  It's  hideous  to  think  of 
the  way  those  Bronte  girls  were  sacrificed  —  one  after  the  other 
—  wiped  out,  when  they  wanted  to  go  on  living.  There  ought 
to  be  a  prayer  said  in  the  churches,  for  those  who  go  to  'em, 
for  those  who  die  young." 


STORM-WRACK  191 

"  So  many  of  them,"  Helena  said,  "all  those  who  die  on  the 
battlefield." 

"I  know:  it's  horrible." 

He  came  over  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  suddenly,  and  with 
passion,  as  if  yielding  to  an  overmastering  impulse.  She  lay 
there  white  and  silent,  envisaging  with  him,  as  the  measure  of 
their  common  passion,  the  very  heights  and  depths  of  misery. 
He  felt  her  shudder  up  against  him,  her  body  seeming  to  cling 
to  his,  her  eyes  shut,  their  white  lids  trembling.  The  minute 
passed.  He  smiled  at  their  folly  and  stroked  her  hair  back 
from  her  forehead,  kissing  her  lips  till  they  smiled  in  answer. 

"  Death,"  he  said,  "  is  something  that  happens  to  other  peo- 
ple. I  forbid  you  to  talk  of  it." 


Helena  had  dispatched  her  letter  on  a  Tuesday,  and  they 
judged  that  it  would  reach  Jerome  on  the  Thursday  of  the 
following  week.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  that  day  that  Hilary 
began  his  new  picture  of  Helena  as  Deirdre.  It  was  so  he  had 
seen  her  first,  and  the  idea  born  then  in  his  mind  had  grown 
steadily  since  the  day  he  saw  her  with  her  hair  down.  There 
was  so  much  of  it  and  he  loved  its  colour  —  gold-brown  like  an 
October  morning.  He  would  bury  his  face  in  it  and  had  been 
miserable  a  thousand  times  because  the  picture  could  not  be 
begun  immediately.  And  once  he  had  quoted  St.  Paul  to  her: 
"  //  a  woman  have  long  hair "...  and  had  felt  her  pull 
herself  laughing  out  of  his  reach.  "  I  detest  St.  Paul,"  she  said. 
He  had  laughed,  too,  and  told  her  that  so  did  he,  but  that  for 
once  the  little  Jew  was  right.  Long  hair  was  a  crown  and  glory 
to  a  woman,  even  though  it  was  St.  Paul  who  said  it. 

"Anyway,  you  look  like  a  picture  by  Waterhouse.  May  I 
say  that?  And  the  picture  of  Deirdre  will  knock  Waterhouse 
and  '  La  Belle  Dame '  into  a  cocked  hat." 

He  had  gone  on  talking  about  it  all  the  time  she  stood  there 
like  a  queen,  with  flushed  face  and  glowing  eyes,  fastening  up 
her  hair  again. 

On  this  particular  Thursday  evening  the  picture  kept  them 
occupied  a  good  deal,  so  that  they  did  not  think  overmuch  about 
Jerome  and  his  letter. 


192  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


Two  days  later  Pamela  and  Ronnie  were  married.  It  was  a 
fashionable  little  function,  conducted  with  all  due  and  neces- 
sary ceremony  and  perhaps  a  little  that  wasn't,  and  it  has  a 
place  in  this  history  only  because  of  the  effect  it  had  on  Helena 
and  Hilary. 

Afterwards  they  would  have  it  that  it  was  the  wedding  which 
had  done  it.  Undermined  their  defences,  they  meant,  which 
was  very  strange,  because  standing  there  upon  their  crag  they 
had  been  so  certain  that  that  sort  of  thing  could  not  possibly 
happen  to  them.  But  even  Hilary  would  have  admitted  some- 
thing additional  to  the  wedding.  There  was  that  not  alto- 
gether inexcusable  mistake  on  the  part  of  somebody  (a  fem- 
inine somebody)  who  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  jumping 
to  conclusions,  and  not  only  of  jumping  to  them,  but  of  turn- 
ing her  back  on  them  immediately,  so  that  it  never  seemed  to 
occur  to  her  to  reconsider  them.  This  particular  conclusion,  as 
it  happened,  was  concerned  with  a  wedding-ring.  Not  Pa- 
mela's, but  Helena's.  .  .  . 

And,  anyway,  it  was  an  incident  which  came  later  on  in  the 
day. 

5 

Helena  found  the  wedding  exactly  like  all  the  others  she  had 
attended  (only,  as  she  said,  "  rather  more  so  ")  save  that  for 
some  inscrutable  reason  she  remembered  afterwards  that  Pa- 
mela looked  beautiful  and  interesting  while  Ronnie  looked  a 
fool.  Hilary  said  there  was  nothing  queer  about  this:  that  all 
men  looked  fools  on  their  wedding-day  and  most  women  like 
lambs  led  to  the  slaughter,  only  in  this  case  it  wasn't  Pamela 
who  would  be  slaughtered.  All  the  same,  she  was  very  beauti- 
ful to  look  at:  not  a  man  there  who  would  not  dream  dreams 
about  her.  She  was  all  gold  and  white  and  delicate  and  ex- 
quisite. Outside  in  the  porch  small  children  in  Kate  Greena- 
way  frocks  threw  roses  at  her  and  succeeded  in  hitting  Ronnie 
each  time  very  neatly  behind  the  ear.  Helena's  sense  of  the 
funniness  of  things  struggled  up  and  made  her  hope  the  roses 
had  no  sharp  thorns.  Other  children,  less  "  official,"  perhaps, 
but  with  considerably  better  aim,  hurled  confetti  in  riotous 


STORM-WRACK  193 

handfuls.  Pamela  tried  to  dodge  the  confetti  and  hurried  into 
the  taxi.  A  Press  photographer  rushed  forward  and  deftly 
secured  a  snapshot,  just  as  she  smiled  from  the  open  window  — 
a  smile  that  wiped  Ronnie  out  completely,  poor,  foolish-looking 
Ronnie  who  sat  hiding  in  the  corner,  rubbing  his  ear,  as  if  the 
roses  did  have  thorns,  after  all! 

After  the  ceremony,  a  reception  at  the  old  Chelsea  house 
Ronnie  had  taken  for  a  year.  They  listened  to  too  many 
speeches  (Hilary  refused  to  make  one,  just  as  he  had  refused  to 
officiate  for  Ronnie,  who  had  had  to  fall  back  upon  a  suburban 
brother,  who,  however,  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself) ;  they 
drank  Ronnie's  champagne  (which  was  excellent)  and  ate 
Pamela's  wedding  cake  (which  was  excellent  too,  if  you  liked 
that  sort  of  thing) ;  and  presently  they  looked  at  her  presents, 
a  really  fine  haul,  which  made  Hilary  congratulate  her  upon  her 
business  ability.  Nothing  else,  he  told  Helena  afterwards, 
could  have  produced  such  a  completely  satisfactory  collection 
with  so  few  duplicates.  But  Pamela  took  his  remarks  in  good 
part.  She  was  essentially  an  amiable  person.  "  Everybody," 
she  said  in  that  honey-sweet  voice  of  hers,  "  had  been  so  very 
kind  ...  so  very  kind." 

For  long  afterwards  Helena  had  a  vision  of  Ronnie's  face  as 
he  shook  hands  with  Hilary  and  said  good-bye.  He  said  it 
three  times,  as  though  it  were  a  sort  of  lesson  he  had  learnt  by 
heart  and  must  not  forget,  and  his  eyes  searched  all  the  time  for 
Pamela. 

She  came  —  clad  in  a  dark  green  costume,  with  a  black  hat 
sporting  an  egret's  feather.  There  were  no  silly  humanitarian 
scruples  about  Pamela.  She  knew,  none  better,  what  suited 
her!  "Come  along,  Ronnie,"  she  said,  "we  shall  miss  the 
train."  She  did  not  intend  to  do  that.  Pamela  was  one  of  the 
people  to  whom  fiascoes  never  happened.  She  had  the  air  of 
one  who  knows  that  she  is  perfectly  beautiful  and  perfectly 
dressed,  and  she  was  as  self-possessed  as  if  she  had  been 
through  the  marriage  ceremony  every  day  of  her  life,  and  in- 
tended to  make  it  henceforth  a  permanent  institution. 

After  Pamela  and  Ronnie  had  gone  Hilary  proposed  that 
they  should  all  go  somewhere  and  "  do  "  a  matinee.  But  every- 
one was  too  much  in  love  with  Ronnie's  beautiful  old  house  and 
the  idea  of  drinking  tea  in  the  old  garden  out  of  Pamela's  new 


194  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

silver  service  to  listen  to  him.  So  he  and  Helena  went  off  by 
themselves.  They  walked,  however,  not  where  matinees  waited 
to  be  "  done,"  but,  almost  instinctively,  in  the  direction  of  Hil- 
ary's studio.  And  as  they  went  he  talked  of  Pamela  —  not  too 
kindly,  Helena  thought. 

"  If  only  he  hadn't  married  her,"  he  said  presently. 

"  But  he  wanted  to  marry  her,"  Helena  objected. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  did.  He  wanted  her.  She's  in  his  blood. 
And  marriage,  with  Pamela,  is  the  only  way.  She  has  a  rigid 
technical  morality  a  man  can't  get  beyond." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  '  technical '  morality?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Dr.  Johnson's  definition  of  a  flirt?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  remember  it,  anyway." 

He  quoted  it  for  her. 

"  A  woman  who  rouses  passions  she  has  no  intention  of  grat- 
ifying. Oh  yes,  you  can  change  the  gender,  of  course.  But 
that's  Pamela.  She's  moral  enough,  if  that's  all  you  mean  by 
'  morality.' " 

"  I  don't,"  Helena  said,  "  but  I  wonder  if  you're  right?  " 

"Right?  About  Pamela?  Of  course  I'm  right,"  and  he 
told  her  things  which  did  seem  rather  to  prove  it. 

"  You  can  see,  can't  you,"  he  asked  Helena,  "  that  a  girl 
like  that  isn't  good  enough  for  Ronnie?  "  She  said  yes,  she 
could  see  that,  as  he  put  his  latchkey  in  the  door  and  let  her  in. 

"  Did  you  tell  Ronnie  these  things?  "  she  inquired,  as  they 
went  up  die  staircase. 

"I  tried  but  it  didn't  do  much  good.  He  said  Pamela 
couldn't  help  it  if  men  made  fools  of  themselves  over  her,  and 
he  could  understand  it,  anyway.  Besides,  he  didn't  want,  he 
said,  to  marry  a  woman  no  other  man  would  look  at." 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps  he'll  never  find  her  out,"  Helena  said. 
"  Are  you  going  to  work?  " 

He  said  he  was,  but  when  she  came  back  in  her  Deirdre  frock 
he  only  sat  there  looking  at  her  in  it.  Barbara  Feilding  had 
designed  and  made  it  up  for  him  over  a  year  ago.  She  had 
clever  fingers  and  a  good  eye  for  colour,  and  Hilary  had  been 
pleased  with  the  gown,  but  for  some  reason  or  other  he  had  not 
used  it  for  the  purpose  he  then  intended ;  and  it  had  hung  about 


STORM-WRACK  195 

in  his  room  until  the  projected  picture  of  Helena  as  Deirdre 
had  brought  it  again  to  his  mind.  It  was  a  greenish-blue  silk 
of  heavy  texture,  with  a  design  of  old  gold,  and  a  girdle  that 
hid  rather  than  defined  the  waist-line.  Barbara  had  cut  it  with 
a  large  square  neck  and  short  loose  sleeves,  and  had  left  it  so 
long  that  it  trailed  as  Helena  moved.  In  his  picture  Hilary  had 
posed  her  so  that  she  stood  with  one  bare  foot  slightly  forward, 
peeping  out  from  beneath  the  blue-green  hem. 

"  It's  a  nice  gown,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  have  to  paint  some 
more  colour  into  it.  It  used  to  seem  to  have  plenty:  your 
hair  takes  it  all." 

However,  he  didn't  paint  that  morning.  Something  got  in 
the  way.  Something  stretched  between  them  —  some  live  wire 
of  feeling  they  knew  they  must  not  touch,  and  presently  Hilary 
turned  from  the  mixing  of  his  paints  to  say  "  Let's  go  some- 
where, shall  we?  " 

"  All  right,  if  you  really  don't  want  to  work.     Where?  " 

"  What  about  our  wood?  " 

"Our  wood?     Oh,  our  Yewhurst  wood.     Oh  no,  not  to-day." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"You  do  know,  Deirdre." 

"  Only  —  that  I'd  rather  not." 

"Afraid?" 

Her  eyes  rather  than  her  lips  said,  "  Yes." 

"Of  me?" 

"Of  us." 

He  saw  her  hands  gripping  the  edge  of  the  divan  and  her 
hair  fall  over  her  face  like  a  russet  veil.  But  she  did  not  push 
it  back:  it  saved  her  from  that  fiercely  tender  glance  of  his: 
though  nothing  could  save  her  from  the  overwhelming  sense 
she  had  of  him  sitting  there  at  her  side. 

"It  doesn't  strike  you,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  it's  just 
as  dangerous  —  to-day  —  to  stop  here?  " 

Out  of  a  deadly  calm  she  answered  him. 

"  Yes  it  does.  I  think  it's  always  going  to  be  dangerous  — 
now,  anywhere." 

He  turned  at  that,  caught  her  tightly  in  his  arms  and  began 
kissing  her  as  though  he  would  never  stop.  Beneath  Barbara's 


196  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

thin  silk  gown  he  could  feel  all  the  soft,  enticing  warmth  of 
her.  Her  hair  fell  about  him  intoxicatingly.  The  blue-green 
gown  slipped  on  one  shoulder.  .  .  . 

When  he  released  her  she  got  up  rather  unsteadily  and  moved 
over  to  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  this  off,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  the 
unwanted  Deirdre  gown. 

"  And  you'll  come  —  to  the  wood?  " 

She  flushed  a  little  under  his  deliberate,  ardent  gaze,  but  she 
nodded. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  saw  the  door  close  between  them  —  heard  the  key  turn 
sharply  in  the  lock. 


He  found  her  a  scratch  lunch  of  cheese,  tomatoes  and  fruit, 
and  after  they  had  eaten  it  Hilary  went  out  to  look  for  a  taxi 
and  to  send  a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Rogers  (one  of  the  many  she 
received,  these  days).  The  taxi  landed  them  at  Victoria  in 
good  time  for  the  two  thirty-five.  They  would  have  to  change, 
they  were  told,  at  a  place  called  Threppington,  and  were  prom- 
ised a  connection.  They  said  but  little  during  the  journey,  but 
once  Hilary  said  suddenly,  "Think  of  it,  Deirdre!  Doesn't  it 
make  your  mouth  water?  A  whole  month  —  together  —  in 
Italy." 

He  was  thinking,  she  knew,  of  Ronnie  and  Pamela,  who  had 
chosen  Italy  for  their  honeymoon,  and  she  could  find  nothing 
to  say. 

"  They're  going  to  Florence  —  then  on  to  Capri.  I  could 
make  you  love  Florence  and  Capri,  Deirdre." 

"  You  could  make  me  love  the  Mile  End  Road,"  she  said,  "  if 
you  tried  hard  enough." 

He  smiled  at  that  and  was  silent.  For  the  rest  of  the  journey 
they  spoke  scarcely  at  all.  Only,  their  eyes  meeting  sometimes 
across  the  narrow  width  of  the  carriage  seemed  to  speak  of  a 
mutual  emotion,  deep  and  voiceless,  and  something  white  and 
hot  flamed  between  them. 

And  then,  as  though  it  scorched  her,  the  red  colour  would 
come  up  swiftly  into  Helena's  face. 


STORM-WRACK  197 


They  missed  the  connection  at  Threppington — as  one  always 
does  miss  connections — by  just  a  few  minutes.  (Besides,  miss- 
ing trains  was  a  trick  of  theirs.)  There  was  nothing  to  Yew- 
hurst  until  the  five-fifteen,  so  they  set  out  to  explore  Threpping- 
ton, which  Iqoked  promising. 

They  went  together  up  the  winding  sunny  road  until  they 
found  a  birch  wood,  and  beyond  it  a  blaze  of  gold  that  Hilary 
said  was  Threppington  Common  with  the  gorse  in  full  bloom. 
They  sat  down,  by  a  mutual  impulse,  not  in  the  wood,  but 
on  the  common,  amid  the  clean  nutty  smell  of  the  gorse,  and 
Helena's  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  the  Sussex  country  that 
lay  sleeping  and  dreaming  beneath  the  hot  sun  of  that  mid-June 
afternoon.  Away  to  the  south  a  line  of  already  yellowing 
fields  rose  steeply  to  the  blue  belt  of  the  sky;  and  on  the  top- 
most ridge  clumps  of  straggling  firs  made  queer  dark  patches 
against  the  horizon.  All  leaning  slightly  forward,  they  had 
about  them  a  curious  air  of  vigilance,  as  though  they  kept  eter- 
nal watch  for  something  that  would  some  day  ride  out  from  the 
sea  up  to  them  there  on  the  ridge  of  the  hill. 

But  Hilary  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  roving  Sussex 
country.  He  was  in  no  mood,  he  said,  for  painting.  He  was 
going  to  lie  down  out  there  in  the  sun  and  go  to  sleep.  Helena 
opened  her  book  and  tried  to  read,  but  all  the  time  she  was 
conscious  of  those  seemingly  closed  eyes  that  watched  her.  She 
felt  strung  up,  intense;  out  there  in  the  open  it  was  almost  un- 
bearably hot.  No  breeze  stirred.  All  the  world  flagged  and 
drooped  in  the  great  heat  that  scorched  her  neck  as  she  sat. 
She  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  folded  it  across  the  nape, 
tucking  the  edges  beneath  the  collar  of  her  frock.  The  hat  she 
had  thrown  off  she  now  put  on  again,  tilting  it  forward  over  her 
eyes.  She  looked  at  Hilary  lying  bareheaded,  the  sun  pouring 
down  in  a  hot  stream  upon  him;  and  suddenly  she  called  to 
him. 

"  Do  let  us  find  some  shade.     This  is  awful !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  find  anything,"  Hilary  replied.  "  I'm  ex- 
traordinarily comfortable." 

"  You  know  you're  not :  you  can't  possibly  be,"  she  said. 
She  sounded  irritable.  That  was  how  she  felt.  The  sun  on 


198  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

her  back  was  like  a  scourge.  She  got  up,  crossed  over  to  Hil- 
ary, took  the  handkerchief  from  her  neck  and  spread  it  over 
Hilary's  face. 

"  You'll  be  ill,"  she  said,  "  it's  much  too  hot  even  for  me." 

His  lips  moved  beneath  the  strip  of  linen.  "  And  why  should 
I  be  ill  because  it's  too  hot  for  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean." 

**  Do  I?     What's  the  matter,  my  incoherent  Deirdre?  " 

"  Nothing  —  except  the  heat.  I  can't  stop  here.  I  shall  be 
sick  if  I  do." 

She  saw  his  mouth  move  again  beneath  the  linen  and  knew 
that  he  smiled  —  saw  it,  with  strange  pain,  for  just  a  second, 
like  a  fleeting  shadow  on  a  drawn  blind. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  "  that's  like  Pamela.  Don't  be  like  Pa- 
mela, Deirdre." 

She  said  nothing,  but  moved  away  and  picked  up  her  book. 
A  fierce  sharp  anger  against  him  sprang  up  in  her  heart  as  she 
went  on  over  the  long  grass  in  the  direction  of  the  wood  behind 
where  Hilary  lay.  She  did  not  go  far.  Just  inside  the  wood 
she  stopped  and  flung  herself  face  downwards  upon  the  ground, 
cooling  her  hot  face  and  sun-soaked  body  in  the  fresh  grass. 
She  felt  giddy  and  a  little  sick,  and  she  was  disturbed  by  that 
little  sharp  flame  of  anger  which  kept  darting  up  and  down 
within  her.  She  lay  very  quietly,  listening  to  the  hum  of  the 
insects  busy  out  there  in  the  sun:  to  the  song  of  the  birds  in 
the  wood  that,  save  for  them,  was  so  still.  There  was  a  peace 
unfathomable  in  the  birch  wood  but  in  her  heart  there  was  no 
peace  at  all.  She  lay  there  longing  for  it  to  come  back,  longing 
for  the  familiar  friendly  intercourse  between  herself  and  Hilary 
—  a  thing  of  quiet  calm  and  dignity,  with  all  the  hot  fierce 
things  that  looked  at  her  now  shut  down  beneath  a  surface  of 
everyday  interest  and  friendship  and  the  dear  delight  of  com- 
panionship. But  it  wouldn't  come  back.  It  was  gone  for  ever. 
She  knew  that  there  was  going  to  be  no  getting  rid  of  this  new 
turbulent  element  that  had  ridden  roughshod  into  the  heart  of 
their  calm  and  for  ever  stopped  its  beating. 

Down  there  in  the  wood  the  fierce  things  stared  and  stared. 
.  .  .  It's  always  going  to  be  dangerous  .  .  .  now.  .  .  .  Face 
downward  in  the  grass  she  looked  long  and  steadily  at  that  fact, 
and  found  it  rather  tfrrible.  Presently  she  sat  up  from  the 


STORM-WRACK  199 

grass  to  look  at  it  better,  to  see  it,  as  it  were,  from  a  new  angle, 
and  as  she  looked  it  seemed  to  grow  less  terrible.  It  became 
part  of  life  —  part  of  her  life.  And  life,  for  all  you  under- 
stood nothing  of  its  riddle,  was  somehow  good.  She  throbbed 
and  ached  this  afternoon  with  her  absorbing  passionate  love 
of  it. 

After  a  while  she  got  up  from  the  grass  and  sat  with  her  back 
to  a  tree,  where  she  could  watch  that  prone  figure  out  there  in 
the  sun.  The  nutty  scent  of  the  gorse  and  the  damp  sweet 
smell  of  the  wood,  were  all  about  her.  She  sat  with  her  hat  off, 
her  head  back  against  the  tree-trunk,  her  book  neglected  on  her 
drawn-up  knees.  Her  eyes  never  roved  from  that  quiet  figure 
lying  out  there  among  the  Sussex  gorse,  with  his  hat  propped 
over  his  eyes  and  her  handkerchief  over  his  face. 

Gradually  the  hot  anger  died  out  of  her  heart.  It  seemed  im- 
possible presently  that  it  could  ever  have  been  there.  A  new 
strange  sense  of  understanding,  incomparably  sweet,  stole  down 
to  her  there  amid  the  birch  trees.  And  presently  it  crept  up, 
like  a  shadow,  into  her  watching,  eyes. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  came  to  her  —  scorched  and  reeling 
from  his  sun  bath. 

"Angry?"  he  asked. 

"Not  now." 

"  You  were?     What  killed  it,  Deirdre?  " 

"  My  anger?     It  was  only  a  little  one." 

"  But  something  did  kill  it?  " 

"  The  wood,  I  think  .  .  .  and  all  the  things  a  wood  makes 
you  see.  One  understands,  somehow,  in  a  wood." 

'*  I  know.  What  has  this  wood  made  you  understand, 
Deirdre?  " 

But  she  wouldn't  answer  that.  She  only  looked  at  him  with 
her  quiet  shadowed  eyes,  and  a  wistful  smile  sending  her  red 
mouth  aslant. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "  you've  no  idea  why 
that  idiotic  wedding  should  have  upset  us?  " 

She  clung  to  the  sound  of  his  voice  rather  than  to  what  it 
said  —  as  if  she  struggled  in  seas  too  strong  and  Hilary's  voice 
was  a  raft,  upon  which,  with  care,  she  might  manage  to  effect 
a  landing. 

"  Has  it?  "  she  murmured. 


200  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  You  know  it  has.     Why  won't  you  look  at  me?  " 
"  I  am  looking  at  you." 

"  No  you're  not.     You're  looking  through  me." 
Her  head  bent  so  that  he  had  only  the  top  of  it  for  his  moody 
eyes  to  rest  on. 

*  Aren't  you  envious?  v 

*  Of  Ronnie  and  Pamela?  " 
'Who  else?" 

'  Of  their  happiness,  you  mean?  " 

'No  —  of  their  freedom  to  take  it." 

"  Oh,  don't,"  she  said,  "  don't.  .  .  ." 

The  conversational  raft  floated  desperately  away  without  her. 
She  could  find  nothing  at  all  to  say  because  srie  saw  how  it  was. 
He,  too,  had  suffered:  had  known  that  longing  for  freedom  that 
had  come  to  her.  And  she  had  thought  that,  in  that  way,  he 
had  not  suffered  at  all,  had  striven  so  hard  to  hide  the  signs  of 
her  own  suffering  from  him  that  she  had  almost  succeeded  in 
wiping  out  for  herself  the  memory  of  that  evening  of  misery  — 
that  long  sobbing  in  the  dark  for  the  thing  that  never  could  be, 
the  unblocked  path,  the  inviolate  body  and  soul.  .  .  . 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  He  saw  the  shadow 
in  her  eyes  and  her  quivering  mouth,  and  compunction  smote 
into  him.  He  leaned  towards  her  yearningly. 

"  Forgive  me,  Deirdre.  .  .  .  I'm  a  brute." 

Balancing  herself  on  her  hand  she*  leaned  over  and  kissed 
him,  very  quietly,  on  the  lips.  Remembering  her  eyes  and  her 
mouth  he  restrained  the  sudden  desire  that  flooded  him,  man- 
aged, somehow,  to  keep  his  hot  hands  off  her. 

"  Don't  let's  be  —  like  that,"  she  said,  "  wanting  everything 
—  when  we've  got  so  much.  Can't  we  wait?  " 

He  said  he  could.  They  both  said  they  could.  They  meant 
it.  They  were  really  quite  honest,  and  decent.  It  was  only 
that  Fate,  with  loaded  dice,  \«as  playing  heavily  against 
them.  .  .  . 

8 

They  had  tea  presently  in  an  inn  Hilary  knew.  It  had  a 
ridiculous  name  and  a  fragrance  about  it  of  mingled  lavender 
and  roses.  And  while  they  had  their  tea  Hilary  was  suddenly 


STORM-WRACK  201 

smitten  with  an  idea.     "Why  shouldn't  we  stop  here,  Deir- 
dre?  "  he  said,  "  instead  of  going  on  to  Yewhurst?  " 

Over  the  rim  of  her  cup  Helena  considered  Hilary  and  his 
idea,  and  she  smiled  because  she  liked  the  one  almost  as  much 
as  the  other.  So  when  the  charming-looking  girl  in  the  green 
frock  who  had  served  the  tea  came  back  with  the  bill,  Hilary 
inquired  if  they  had  any  rooms.  Could  the  "  Honey  Pot " 
(that  was  its  ridiculous  name)  put  them  up  for  the  nignt?  The 
"  Honey  Pot "  could,  and  the  girl  in  green  inquired  if  they 
would  step  upstairs  and  look  at  the  rooms.  But  Hilary  and 
Helena  (with  the  call  of  the  open  sounding  loudly  in  their  ears) 
rather  thought  they  would  not  be  bothered.  They  wanted  two 
rooms  and  the  best  there  were.  And  could  they  have  dinner  at 
eight? 

Afterwards  Hilary  said  it  was  that  dreadfully  casual  manner 
of  his,  but  Helena  said  she  was  sure  that  hadn't  anything  at  all 
to  do  with  it.  What  had  made  that  nice  girl  jump  to  her 
conclusion  was  not  at  all  that  Hil-ary  said  "  Oh,  Sargent,"  when 
the  girl  asked,  "What  name  if  you  please,  sir?  "  but  that  the 
girl  had  a  really  well-developed  power  of  observation.  In  fact, 
that  explanation  seemed  so  ridiculously  simple  and  reasonable 
that  they  never  quite  understood  why,  until  the  thing  had  hap- 
pened, the  possibility  of  its  happening  had  occurred  to  neither 
of  them.  But  the  simple  fact  is  that  it  did  not.  They  came 
back  at  a  quarter  to  eight  to  find  it  staring  them  in  the  face  — 
un  fait  accompli. 

9 

It  was  Hilary  who  stared  at  it  first  because  Helena  had  gone 
along  to  the  bathroom  in  search  of  soap  and  water,  and  Hilary 
had  said,  "  It's  all  right,  don't  trouble  to  come  up,"  to  the 
green  girl  who  had  encountered  them  in  the  hall  and  offered  to 
show  them  to  their  rooms. 

&  Numbers  18  and  19,  sir  ...  on  the  first  floor,"  and,  to 
Helena  (who  had  inquired  after  her  precious  bathroom),  "On 
the  same  floor,  madam,  right  at  the  end  of  the  passage." 

Even  that  dreadful  "  madam  "  didn't  warn  them. 

So,  while  Helena  splashed  about  in  cold  water,  Hilary  faced 
the  tremendous  Surprise  of  it  alone.  He  turned  the  handle 
of  Number  18  and  stood  looking  at  it  blankly.  For  Number 


202  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

18  was  a  sitting-room,  and  on  an  old  oak-table  dinner  was  set 
carefully  for  two.  A  big  bowl  of  roses  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  their  scent  mingling  delicately  with  the  odour  of 
lavender  that  seemed  to  cling,  like  a  vestment,  about  the  old 
house.  The  windows  were  flung  wide,  letting  in  a  scented 
surge  of  evening  air. 

But  even  then  the  thing  didn't  dawn  on  Hilary.  A  mistake, 
of  course.  He  went  back  and  looked  again  at  the  number  on 
the  door.  That,  certainly,  was  18.  Hilary  frowned  and  turned 
the  handle  of  the  door  adjoining,  which  was  plainly  Number  19. 

And  Number  19  stood  instantly  revealed  as  a  bedroom.  It 
was  extraordinary  how  in  a  small  fraction  of  time  the  details 
of  that  room  stamped  themselves  upon  Hilary's  mind  —  the  two 
single  black-oak  bedsteads  set  side  by  side,  the  big  double-mir- 
rored wardrobe,  and  the  washstand  with  beautifully  carved 
legs;  the  armchair  of  black  leather,  with  deep  blue  cushions 
that  matched  the  curtains  at  the  open  window,  or  the  evening 
sky  beyond  it;  the  two  water-colours  on  the  wall  that,  even  in 
that  moment,  his  brain  registered  as  "  good  ";  the  bowl  of  roses 
at  the  side  of  the  farther  bed,  and  above  all,  Helena's  little 
attache-case  standing  in  one  corner  with  hia  satchel  and  sketch- 
book placed  intimately  and  wonderfully  on  top  of  it. 

It  was  that  last  little  item  that  brought  the  truth  down  upon 
Hilary  with  a  rush.  He  stepped  well  into  the  room  and  re- 
mained there  staring  around  it,  incapable  of  thought  or  of 
action. 

"Oh,  good  Lord!"  he  muttered,  "good  Lord!  What  a 
mess!  " 

10 

In  at  the  open  door  there  floated  the  merry  sound  of  the 
splashing  and  running  of  water,  mingled  with  the  cheery  rattle 
of  plates  below-stairs  and  a  chatter  of  voices.  As  if  to  shut 
them  out,  Hilary  pushed  the  door  up  close  and  moved  to  the 
open  window,  where  he  stood  looking  out  across  the  quiet  coun- 
try, flanked  by  the  downs  like  a  line  of  blue  guards,  and  with 
the  distant  woods  mere  patches  of  duskiness  against  a  sky  of 
rose  and  opal.  From  the  bathroom  came  still  the  splashing  of 
water  and  the  sound  of  Helena's  happy  voice  chanting  an  old 
song  to  a  modern  tune  of  Brian's. 


STORM-WRACK  203 

The  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 
The  rose  is  budding  fain.  .  .  . 

The  song  came  dancing  along  the  corridor,  and  even  in  that 
moment  Hilary  thought  that  Brian's  melody  was  bad  —  that  it 
didn't  go  well  with  the  words. 

But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 
Ere  we  two  meet  again. 
Ere  we  two.  .  .  . 

Oh,  I  say,  how  nice  of  them,  a  tete-a-tete  dinner!  " 

The  voice  stopped  outside  the  sitting-room:  the  song  began 

again  inside  it,  whither  the  sight  of  that  neatly-set  dinner-table 

had  intrigued  the  singer. 

He  gave  his  bridle-rein  a  shake, 
Said  "  Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  Love, 

And  Adieu  for  evermore! 
Adieu  for.  .  .  ." 

The  song  broke  off.  Hilary  guessed  miserably  that  the  num- 
bers outside  there  on  the  door  had  incontinently  strangled  it. 
Turning,  he  saw  Helena  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  her  level 
brows  drawn  together  in  a  frown  of  bewilderment,  her  white 
teeth  pressing  down  her  lower  lip.  Neither  of  them  spoke. 
He  watched  her  taking  in,  as  he  had  done,  every  separate  item 
of  that  oaken  room;  saw  her  gaze  come  to  rest  at  last  upon  the 
moving  sight  of  her  own  belongings  set  down  there  in  that 
absurdly  intimate  fashion  with  his,  and  then  transfer  itself 
slowly,  and  with  a  deepening  of  her  frown,  to  her  hands. 

The  light  broke.  She  came  into  the  room,  half-shutting  the 
door  behind  her,  the  colour  in  her  face,  her  eyes  on  Hilary's. 

" Of  course"  she  said  slowly,  " they  think  we're  married." 

And  she  stretched  her  hands  forth  to  Hilary,  who  wouldn't 
take  them,  who  wouldn't  even  look  at  her  properly,  who  kept 
repeating,  "  Deirdre,  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  I'm  a  fool  —  an 
idiot.  It  simply  never  occurred  to  me!  " 

And  Helena  —  a  new,  superb,  marvellously  calm  Helena  — 
said  quietly: 

"  Do  you  suppose  for  one  single  moment  that  I  thought  it 
had?" 


204  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

11 

Presently  she  sat  down,  not  in  one  of  the  armchairs  —  arm- 
chairs, somehow,  were  not  for  occasions  of  this  sort  —  but  on 
the  edge  of  the  nearest  white  bed.  And  Hilary  shut  the  door 
and  loojced  at  her  as  she  sat  there  gazing  down  at  her  hands  that 
she  would  have  him  believe  were  the  cause  of  it  all. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  in  that  quick  almost  insolent  manner 
of  his  that  meant  tremendous  excitement  and  "  nerves,"  "  I'd 
better  go  down  and  explain." 

Helena  looked  up  from  the  twisting  of  the  compromising  ring 
on  her  finger. 

"  To  that  nice  girl  ?  "  she  said. 

"Oh  damn!" 

And  then,  partly  because  (for  all  the  calm  of  her  appear- 
ance) she  was  nervous  and  strung-up,  and  partly  because  the 
situation,  after  all,  had  its  element  of  humour,  a  smile  trem- 
bled crookedly  across  her  mouth. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  very  awkward,"  she  said,  and  knew 
that  her  smile  had  annoyed  Hilary  before  he  snapped  out  that 
he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  see  that  the  situation  was  in  the 
least  amusing. 

"  I'll  go  and  find  that  confounded  girl  at  once.  There's  no- 
body here.  .  .  .  They're  certain  to  have  another  room  to  spare 
and  we  can  stick  to  the  sitting-room.  You'd  like  to  do  that?  " 

She  felt  suddenly  stupid,  as  though  Hilary's  petulant  little 
outburst  filled  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 

"  Do  what?  "  she  asked.  "  Oh,  the  sitting-room?  Yes,  let's 
stick  to  that." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  Hilary  said,  "  do  try  to  stop  thinking  this 
is  funny." 

"  But  it  is  funny,  you  know.     It  really  is." 

"  Then  God  help  me,  I  can't  see  it,"  Hilary  said  in  sudden 
passion. 

Helena  said  nothing.  Her  faint  smile  was  quite  dead,  and 
like  a  tide  the  colour  had  drifted  out  of  her  face.  She  looked 
suddenly  white  and  wistful,  as  she  had  looked  in  the  wood,  as 
though  with  the  painful  death  of  her  smile  tears  had  come  near 
to  birth.  An  immense  contrition  for  the  second  time  that  day 
chased  the  anger  out  of  Hilary's  heart;  his  face  softened.  He 


STORM-WRACK  205 

came  towards  her,  stooped  to  pick  up  her  limp  hands  from  her 
lap  and  began  to  kiss  them. 

**  I'm  an  irritable  beast,"  he  said.  "  When  things  go  wrong 
I'm  hateful.  To  everyone.  To  you,  too,  and  that's  awful. 
One  day,  darling,  you'll  hate  me  so." 

She  neither  looked  at  him  nor  spoke:  her  hands  at  his  lips 
seemed  cold  and  unresponsive.  He  dropped  them  back  again 
into  her  lap. 

"  This  sort  of  thing,"  he  told  her,  "  gets  on  my  nerves." 

She  looked  at  him  then.  "  Sit  down  here,"  she  said,  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  laid  her  left  hand  invitingly  on  the  white  bed  where  she 
sat.  The  ghost  of  her  dead  smile  struggled  bravely  up  again 
and  looked  faintly  at  him  out  of  her  eyes.  Her  mouth  —  with 
its  new  wistful  expresion  —  was  the  only  piece  of  colour  in  her 
white  face.  He  thought  she  looked  adorable  —  beautiful  in 
some  new  fashion  he  could  not  wholly  comprehend.  He  wor- 
shipped her  and  yet  he  could  be  hateful  —  abominable  —  to 
her.  He  came  miserably  and  sat  down  at  her  side  on  the  edge 
of  the  little  white  bed.  He  didn't  touch  her:  several  inches  of 
white  coverlet  gaped  hungrily  between  them.  What  she  said 
startled  him.  It  may,  even,  have  startled  her. 

"  Dear.     We've  got,  some  day,  to  do  this,  haven't  we?  " 

"Do  what?" 

"This.     Let  people  think  we're  married." 

"  We're  not  going  to  let  them  think  it.  I'm  going  down  to 
find  that  beastly  girl." 

"  But  that  doesn't  answer  my  question,  does  it?  There 
won't  —  ever,  will  there  —  be  any  other  way  than  this?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"None." 

She  sat,  now,  very  upright,  playing  no  longer  with  the  band 
of  gold  on  her  finger.  She  had  the  air  of  one  who  has  made  a 
quick  decision  and  faces  a  situation  boldly.  Her  eyes  gazed 
not  at  him  but  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"  Well,  if  it's  got  to  be  intrigue  .  .  .  deception  ...  of  a 
sort,  it  won't  be  any  better,  that  way,  will  it,  in  three  months' 
time?  " 

He  said,  not  in  the  least  seeing  where  she  was  taking  him, 
"  It  won't  be  any  different,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 


206  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

**  It  is,"  she  said.  "  We're  quite  certain,  aren't  we,  that  that's 
the  only  way  there  is?  " 

"For  us?" 

"  Yes.     The  only  way  out." 

"Absolutely." 

The  white  coverlet  continued  to  gape  between  them:  even 
now,  by  a  huge  effort,  he  kept  his  hands  away  from  her.  But 
he  looked  at  her,  wondering  faintly  at  the  way  she  was  taking 
it;  not  interested,  somehow,  in  the  way  she  was  taking  him. 
He  only  wanted  to  rush  out,  take  that  absurd  girl  by  her  green- 
clad  shoulder  and  abuse  her  for  the  presumptuous  idiot  she  was. 
Pain  and  fury  contended  together  within  him,  and  in  the  back- 
ground lurked  something  stronger  far  than  they,  that  he  kept 
his  hand  on  —  that  struggled  beneath  his  grasp  like  a  mad  dog. 
.  .  .  He  wondered  desperately  how  much  longer  he  could  keep 
it  under.  And  then  Helena  spoke. 

"  Supposing?  "  she  said,  "  that  we  don't  bother  that  nice 
girl?" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  but  her  eyes  still  stared  at  the 
opposite  wall. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  would.     It's  very  simple." 

Her  eyes  had  forsaken  the  wall  for  her  white  hands  in  her 
lap.  He  saw  the  colour  creeping  stealthily  up  under  her  white 
skin  and  though  his  blood  leapt  he  made  no  movement  to  bridge 
the  distance  between  them.  Still  with  determination  he  kept 
his  hand  firmly  on  that  mad  dog  of  a  feeling  struggling  furi- 
ously to  be  free. 

"  I  don't  find  it  simple,"  he  said. 

Suddenly,  as  if  she  realised  that  he  didn't  intend  to  help  her 
at  all,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  He  saw  her 
shining  eyes  and  the  colour  drifting  up  like  mad  in  her  face, 
and  he  thought  she  must  hear  his  heart  beat.  But  she  heard 
nothing  at  all  save  the  beating  of  her  own. 

"  If  they  like  to  think  we  —  are  married,"  she  said,  "  why 
shouldn't  we  let  them?  " 

The  look  she  bent  on  him  staggered  him  —  the  strangest, 
most  wonderful  blending,  it  seemed  to  him,  even  in  that  mo- 


STORM-WRACK  207 

ment,  of  pride  and  humility.  He  came  nearer  to  her  then,  put- 
ting out  a  hand,  shy  and  tentative,  to  touch  her. 

"  You're  sure  you'll  never  regret?  " 

Most  wonderfully  she  smiled  at  him. 

"  Neither  of  us,"  she  said,  "  is  ever  going  to  regret  anything 
.  .  .  whatever  happens.  Isn't  it  appalling  to  be  as  sure  of  a 
thing  as  all  that?  " 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  met,  but  as  she  felt  his  hands  upon 
her,  her  eyes  closed,  the  proud  head  lowered. 

"Deirdre,"  he  said,  and  then,  in  a  sudden  rapture  of  joy 
and  sorrow.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  why  do  you  cry?  " 

12 

So  the  girl  who  jumped  to  conclusions  never  knew  how 
wrong,  this  time,  she  had  been. 

She  brought  them  their  dinner  presently,  and  she  thought 
they  must  be  tired  because  they  were  so  quiet.  But  speech, 
somehow,  was  now  superfluous.  They  had,  each  of  them,  the 
air  of  a  listener,  as  though  their  silence  was  a  thing  more  elo- 
quent than  any  speech  and  much  more  wonderful. 

There  was  a  hush,  too,  on  the  outside  world.  The  June  even- 
ing dropped  slowly.  The  young  moon  had  long  since  gone  to 
bed,  and  every  time  Helena  looked  out  of  the  window  she  saw 
just  a  sweep  of  sky,  sapphire-blue,  and  the  rounded  outline  of 
the  summer  trees  dark  against  it.  There  was  no  sound  at  all 
cut  there  beyond  the  soft  cooing  of  doves  or  the  occasional 
shrill  cry  of  the  heron. 

The  girl  who  did  not  know  how  wrong  she  had  been,  sug- 
gested coffee  in  the  garden.  She  brought  it  to  them  there,  and 
they  sat  over  it  until  the  sky  deepened  and  the  white  stars  came 
out,  and  the  garden  was  only  a  blurred  indistinct  mass  stabbed 
at  intervals  by  the  bold  spire  of  the  larkspur.  But  it  smelt 
divinely  of  syringa  and  tobacco  plant  and  the  lemon-scented 
verbena;  and  the  trees  dreamed  and  dreamed  'twixt  sleeping 
and  waking. 

Down  there  amid  the  scented  darkness  Hilary  pulled  her 
sharply  up  against  him  and  gazed  searchingly  into  her  face. 
He  saw  it  white  and  mysterious  against  the  blurred  beauty  of 
the  garden,  so  utterly  loving  that  it  hurt  him  to  look  at  it.  It 


208  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

stabbed  into  him  there  in  the  darkness  —  a  thing  he  had  not 
known  any  face  could  do.  He  crushed  her  suddenly  and 
fiercely  in  his  arms,  felt  her  body  tremble  to  his,  and  knew 
she  was  his,  not  for  the  asking,  but  for  the  taking. 

With  a  new  tenderness  he  kissed  her,  beneath  the  dreaming 
trees  and  the  white-starred  sky.  He  kissed  her  many  times. 

13 

Presently  they  went  in,  crossed  a  dim  hall  where  the  pro- 
prietor nodded  over  his  paper  but  woke  up  to  ask  Hilary  to 
sign  the  Visitors'  Book.  Helena  watched  him  do  it:  saw  him 
write  in  his  straggling  untidy  handwriting,  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hilary  Sargent." 

Then,  on  up  the  broad  oak  staircase  to  the  door  of  room  18. 
Here  they  paused,  their  hands  touching  over  the  handle. 

"  Deirdre,  the  boats  are  burned.     Do  you  realise  that?  " 

"  They  were  burned,  weren't  they,"  she  said,  "  a  long  time 
ago?  " 

The  look  they  gave  each  other  there  on  the  threshold  was  one 
of  almost  terrible  tenderness.  Nothing  like  this  had  ever 
happened  to  anyone  before  in  the  world  and  would  happen  to 
no  one  again.  Their  faces  were  full  of  this  sense  of  the 
grandly  solitary:  exaltation  had  them  both  by  the  throat.  He 
leaned  to  her  there  on  the  dim  landing,  his  lips  against  her 
hair,  his  voice  thrilling. 

"  I  adore  you  ...  I  adore  you." 

He  saw  her  face,  radiant,  for  just  one  second  before  she 
slipped  past  him  into  the  room. 

She  undressed  slowly  in  the  dark,  and  then  sat  curled  up  in 
an  armchair  by  the  window,  gazing  out  into  the  blue-black  night 
that  was  warm  and  still  and  scented. 

Half  an  hour  later  Hilary  found  her  there,  a  white  figure 
with  shimmering  hair. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


SOMETHING  joyful  and  buoyant  awoke  with  Helena  next 
morning.     She  lay  searching  her  mind,  turning  it  inside 
out,  looking  for  remorse  and  finding  nothing  but  this 
tremendous   inordinate   sense   of   happiness.     She   could   not 
get  away  from  it.     You  can  think  of  nothing  else  when  you  are 
as  happy  as  all  that. 

The  morning  was  beautiful.  All  the  rest  of  her  life  she 
was  grateful  for  that,  because  this  was  England  and  it  might  so 
easily  not  have  been.  She  swung  herself  over  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  crept  softly  to  the  window.  The  room  looked  on 
to  the  garden  —  a  country  garden,  planted  closely  with  all 
manner  of  old-fashioned  English  flowers  —  sweet-williams, 
candytuft,  white  pinks  in  massed  profusion,  mignonette,  wall- 
flowers, pansies  and  the  earlier  roses.  It  was  the  sort  of  gar- 
den Helena  had  known  all  her  life,  and  it  reminded  her  this 
morning  (though  this  was  summer  and  that  was  autumn)  of  her 
first  morning  with  Jerome,  when  they  had  sat  together  at  break- 
fast, looking  over  just  such  another  garden  as  this.  Michael- 
mas daisies  had  grown  in  it  and  marguerites,  very  tall  and 
straight,  and  bronze  nasturtiums  over  a  flagged  path.  There 
had  been,  too,  one  red  rose,  full-blown,  and  at  her  breast  she 
had  worn  violets  —  Jerome's  violets,  that  he  had  found  in 
some  sheltered  spot  in  a  wood.  And  in  the  night  it  had  rained, 
so  that  the  morning  was  green  like  an  emerald.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  went  echoing  and  re-echoing  along  the  windy 
corridor  of  the  past,  and  she  stood  there  at  the  window  listening 
to  them.  She  could  bear  to  do  that,  because  for  the  moment 
she  was  lifted  high  above  all  doubts  and  qualms,  bereft  utterly 
of  theories.  You  do  not  argue  or  theorise  about  a  feeling  of 
this  sort.  Even  in  the  bright  light  of  that  June  morning  —  so 
utterly  passionless  and  virgin  —  she  regretted  just  nothing  at 

209 


210  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

all.  She  was  pervaded,  wrapt  about,  with  a  sense  of  peace  and 
assurance,  and  understood  nothing  save  that  one  gives  oneself 
for  love  or  one  does  not.  And  she  had.  Because  she  believed 
in  love,  because  she  always  had  believed  in  it,  even  when  she 
had  accepted  so  many  other  things  in  place  of  it. 

Hilary  still  slept,  lying  high  on  his  pillows,  with  tumbled 
hair  and  more  colour  in  his  face  than  Helena  had  ever  seen 
there  before.  Turning  about  from  her  survey  of  the  early 
morning  pageant,  her  eyes  fell  upon  him  and  remained  there. 
Something  new  and  unfamiliar  stirred  within  her  as  she  looked 
at  him  lying  beneath  her  warmly  intimate  gaze.  She  was 
conscious  of  new  wonderful  things  coming  to  birth  within 
her,  and  was  uplifted  by  a  tidal  wave  of  unexpected  emotion, 
compounded  of  a  hundred  things  that  as  yet  were  nameless. 
In  that  moment  of  terrible  insight  she  had  a  grave  sweet  sense 
of  the  everyday:  of  the  quiet  ways  of  love  that  are  companion- 
ship and  understanding.  She  saw  love  suddenly  as  no  mere 
passionate  noctivagation,  but  an  illuminant,  that  swept  like 
a  searchlight  into  the  far  corners,  where  custom,  tradition  and 
a  miserable  morality  of  possession  still  held  sway. 

Another  thought  came  to  her  —  without  panic,  almost  with- 
out emotion.  Jerome,  by  now,  knew  the  truth,  or  a  good  deal 
of  it.  They  had  not  bargained  for  this.  And  "  this "  was 
recorded  downstairs  in  the  Visitors'  Book  in  Hilary's  untidy 
handwriting. 

After  all,  they  had  not  been  "  decent." 
She  was  sorry  for  Jerome  —  quietly^  sanely  sorry.  It  was  a 
feeling  this  morning  devoid  of  the  passion  that  had  torn  and 
clutched  at  her  a  fortnight  ago.  She  looked  at  it  now  as  she 
looked  at  her  happiness  —  whh  the  calm  unperturbed  gaze  of 
the  person  who  has  chosen  and  does  not  regret.  There  was  no 
help  for  it.  She  and  Hilary  were  in  love  with  each  other,  and 
that  they  had  no  right  to  be  in  love  made  not  the  least  differ- 
ence in  the  world.  That,  sometimes,  was  the  way  of  love. 

For  all  that,  however,  the  shadowed  June  garden  slipped 
away  as  she  looked  at  it,  and  another,  coloured  by  the  hand  of 
October  and  moist  from  the  passage  of  the  rain,  came  up  in 
its  stead.  Tall,  white  marguerites,  bronzed  nasturtiums  over  a 
flagged  path,  and  one  red  rose,  full-blown.  .  .  . 


STORM-WRACK  211 


Dressed  and  ready  .for  the  morning  she  yet  hesitated,  with 
her  hand  on  the  door-knob,  looking  back  at  the  room  where 
she  had  been  so  happy,  with  its  black  oak  furniture,  its  blue 
curtains,  the  plain  white  walls  they  had  had  the  courage  (save 
for  those  two  water-colours)  to  leave  blank;  and  the  deep  bowl 
of  roses,  some  of  which  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  had  made  a 
futurist  pattern  on  the  floor. 

The  roses  most  of  all,  perhaps.  For  years  afterwards  when 
out  of  the  past  that  blue-black  room  was  to  rise  up  and  look 
at  her,  it  was  always  Hilary's  flushed  face  on  his  pillows,  and 
that  splash  of  vivid  colour  down  there  on  the  black  floor,  that 
she  saw  first,  and  there  would  come  to  her  then  that  queer 
tantalising  scent  of  mingled  roses  and  lavender. 


Downstairs  the  girl  in  green  wrestled  with  a  collection  of 
bolts  and  catches  in  her  interest  and  let  her  out  into  the 
morning.  She  walked  straight  on  down  the  road;  crossed  the 
first  stile  she  came  to  and  went  on  through  the  fields,  growing 
thick  with  sorrel,  ox-eyed  daisies  and  buttercups.  She  liked 
this  southern  county,  with  its  chalky  soil,  its  rolling  open  view 
of  hill  and  dale,  its  great  line  of  downs  and  the  faint  sugges- 
tion you  had  all  the  time  of  the  sea.  Helena  walked,  too,  with 
the  seeing  eye,  so  that  even  this  morning  her  ramble  was  less 
subjective  than  it  might  quite  reasonably  have  been. 

For  out  there  in  the  beautiful  morning  her  happiness  per- 
sisted. Nothing  troubled  her.  It  was  as  if  her  brain  had 
yielded  up  its  functions  for  a  while,  so  that  the  deadly  knife 
of  analysis  it  had  controlled  was  stilled  at  last.  Life  had 
ceased  to  be  either  placid  or  comfortable:  but  was  suddenly  a 
thing  of  daring  and  adventure.  She  flung  up  her  head  at  the 
challenge  of  it,  that  old  line  of  Browning's  floated  back  to  her. 
One  must  be  venturesome  and  fortunate.  What  is  one  young 
for  else? 


212  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


At  breakfast  there  was  wonder  and  ecstasy  between  them  — 
no  sense  of  culpability,  none  of  embarrassment.  Fair  and 
pure  their  mutual  passion  burned  up  and  up  between  them  like 

a  white  flame,  destroying  the  very  heart  of  wrong  and  of 
shame.  .  .  . 

Afterwards  they  went  out  together  up  the  winding  road 
that  crept  past  orchards  cool  and  green,  down  into  the  birch 
wood  and  out  again  on  to  the  gorse-covered  common.  And  all 
the  morning  Hilary  worked  at  his  water-colour  of  Helena  in 
her  queer  mauve  frock  and  behaved  as  though,  on  the  whole, 
he  was  pleased  with  it.  But  after  lunch  he  put  it  out  of  sight 
and  took  Helena  down  again  into  the  wood. 

Like  a  thing  loth  to  depart,  that  goes  with  reluctant  feet, 
looking  back  longingly  over  its  shoulder,  their  great  day 
slipped  away  from  them. 

And  the  scent  of  the  gorse  was  entangled  in  Helena's 
memories  of  it  —  inextricably  mixed  up  with  that  other  of 
roses  and  lavender.  . 


They  went  back  to  town  by  the  eight-thirty  —  the  train 
they  had  refused  to  hurry  for  a  fortnight  ago,  and  in  London 
was  nothing  but  a  ma^e  of  wet  streets  and  a  devastating 
scarcity  of  taxi-cabs. 

And  in  Helena's  room  a  telegram,  bearing  Saturday's  date 
and  wearing  the  belated  forlorn  expression  of  the  telegram  that 
has  found  you  out  and  must  await  your  coming.  Helena 
frowned  at  it,  thinking  that  telegraphists  wrote  a  vile  hand. 
With  brisk  unconcern  she  broke  open  the  envelope  and  ran  her 
casual  careless  glance  over  the  message  it  contained.  And  the 
message  was 

Arrived  Liverpool  this  morning  expect  me  Guiford 
Street  four. 

Jerome. 


CHAPTER  NINE 


LATER,  when  she  looked  back,   there  seemed  to   be  a 
great  gulf  between  what  came  after  and  that  moment 
when   she  stood   with   Jerome's   telegram   of   Saturday 
in  her  hands,  knowing  herself  grateful  in  profound  measure  to 
the  gods  who  were  forcing  immediate  battle  upon  her,  while 
her  blood  raced  and  her  courage  leaped  from  the  plunge. 

It  was  in  the  night  that  she  realised  that  Jerome  had  come 
back  knowing  nothing  whatever  —  that  he  could  not  possibly 
have  received  her  letter  before  he  started  off  by  the  early 
boat.  There  were  other  things,  too,  that  had  not  yet  occurred 
to  her.  During  the  night  and  early  morning  they  began  to 
descend  upon  her  —  chill,  ominous  things,  separate  and  dis- 
tinct, falling  about  her  like  snowflakes,  and  as  silently. 

Even  so,  she  had  not  known  how  wretched  she  was  until  she 
was  nearing  Charing  Cross  station  and  saw  Jerome,  with  a  face 
like  morning,  waiting  there  for  her  outside  the  Bureau  de 
Change. 

2 

Another  blank  after  that,  filled  up  with  some  horror  of  a 
meal  at  which  there  was  chianti  and  small  talk,  and  a  wish  at 
the  bottom  of  her  heart  that  she  were  dead.  .  .  .  And  after 
that  a  taxi  ride  to  Guilford  Street,  tears  at  the  back  of  her  eyes, 
a  strange  lump  in  her  throat  and  the  thought  climbing  out  of 
her  wretchedness  that  Jerome  was  like  a  schoolboy  home  on 
holiday.  Another  thought,  too,  when  he  kissed  her,  that  it 
was  horrible  to  be  caressed  like  this  by  two  men,  as  though,  in 
some  dreadful  fashion,  her  body  no  longer  belonged  to  her. 
And  once  she  thought:  "  I  can  never  tell  him  —  never.  How 
did  I  ever  imagine  I  could?  "  But  she  knew  that  she  must, 
because,  instantly,  there  arose  before  her  a  horrible  vision  of 

213 


214  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

herself  journeying  back  in  the  grey  car  to  "  Windward  " —  of 
herself  in  Jerome's  arms  in  all  the  dreadful  terrifying  intimacy 
of  their  common  room  facing  the  outstretched  moor.  And 
then  another  wiped  it  out  —  a  vision  of  that  other  room  down 
there  in  Sussex,  with  fallen  rose  petals,  a  riot  of  colour, 
strewn  out  upon  a  black  oak  floor,  and  Hilary's  face  lying 
flushed  and  high  on  his  white  pillows.  Strength  came  to  her 
then,  so  that  she  made  the  abrupt  terrible  effort  of  despair. 

But  even  as  she  spoke  she  hoped  that  Jerome  would  be  angry, 
because  one  suffered  less  if  one  could  get  angry.  Anger  was 
like  love  —  it  burned  up  everything  else.  All  the  same,  it 
was  less  what  she  said  than  the  sight  of  her  blanched  and 
twisted  face  that  stabbed  furiously  down  into  Jerome's  under- 
standing. Things  blinded  and  frantic  rushed  past  him  into 
the  dark,  stabbing  at  him  afresh  as  they  ran.  And,  all  the 
time,  Helena's  voice  relating  a  ridiculous  story.  .  .  . 

"  I  know  it  all  sounds  like  comic  opera,  but  it's  true.  ...  I 
can  give  you  the  address  .  .  .  All  the  evidence  you  want." 

"  Comic  opera,"  Jerome  said,  "  Oh,  my  God!  " 

She  remembered  very  little  of  anything  after  that.  All 
those  things  he  said  to  her,  all  those  things  she  said  to  him, 
were  best  forgotten.  Later,  the  ridiculous  outrageous  things 
he  said  about  artists  made  her  smile,  but  to-day  and  for  many 
a  day  to  come,  only  one  thing  remained  with  her.  Jerome  was 
not  going,  after  all,  to  be  "decent"  Resolutely  and  un- 
flinchingly he  refused  altogether  to  be  "  decent." 

Presently  he  rose  to  go,  and  the  spectacle  of  Jerome  looking 
for  his  hat  remained  with  Helena  for  ever.  It  had  fallen  from 
its  chair  and  lay  face  downwards  upon  the  faded  reds  and 
greens  of  Mrs.  Rogers's  carpet.  Helena  saw  it,  in  that  mo- 
ment, in  all  its  pathetic  funniness  —  the  hard  felt  hat  of  the 
masculine  creature,  the  "  bowler  "  that  is  neither  dignified  nor 
reasonable. 

"  You  will  know  where  to  find  me  when  you  want  me." 
Jerome's  voice,  cold,  dispassionate,  reached  her  from  the  door- 
way. Her  own,  faint  and  spent,  trailed  after  him,  like  some- 
thing wounded  to  death.  "I  shall  not  want  you  —  ever. 
Good-bye." 

The  door  closed.  He  went.  She  heard  his  footsteps  going 
along  the  landing  and  down  the  stairs  .  .  .  heard  them  stumble 


STORM-WRACK  215 

a  little  at  the  awkward  turn  that  met  them  halfway  down, 
knew  that  they  recovered  and  went  on  steadily  into  the  passage 
and  along  to  the  front  door.  That  opened,  shut,  and  the  foot- 
steps went  on  down  the  road.  And  when  they  died  away  there 
was  nothing  at  all  save  that  one  thought  —  that  Jerome  was  not 
going  to  be  "  decent,"  that  resolutely,  obstinately,  he  had  re- 
fused, point-blank,  to  be  "decent." 


CHAPTER  TEN 


STRANGELY  enough,  it  was  Hilary  who  pulled  her  out 
of  her  swamp  of  misery  into  the  delirious  happiness  of 
the  present  —  a  Hilary  who  was  determined,  at  this 
juncture,  to  see  neither  past  nor  future.  His  overmastering 
need  of  Helena  just  then  (their  overmastering  need  of  each 
other)  wiped  out  everything  save  itself  and  the  opportunities 
for  being  together  that  came  to  them. 

Not  that  opportunities  came  entirely  without  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  lovers,  who,  to  be  quite  accurate,  dragged  them 
along  to  them  by  cunning  manoeuvres  that  included  subterfuge 
and  evasion.  Intrigue  strode  with  boldness  and  startling  sud- 
denness into  their  lives,  making  itself  so  useful  that  they 
almost  forgot  how  much  they  hated  and  distrusted  it.  For  it 
was  just  then  (or  that  was  how  Hilary  seemed  to  see  it)  the 
one  friend  they  had.  the  one  friend  in  their  confidence,  who 
neither  passed  judgment  nor  called  them  to  a  consideration  of 
things  irrevocable  between  them.  Not,  of  course,  that  Hilary's 
friends  were  going  to  do  either  of  these  things.  The  people 
who  were  going  to  make  a  fuss  were  all  on  Helena's  side. 
Sooner  or  later  the  fight  would  begin:  but  it  had  not  begun 
yet,  and  it  struck  Helena  (playing  this  queer  game  of  secrecy 
because  Hilary  would  have  it  so)  as  a  little  superfluous  to  don 
one's  armour-plate  to  meet  people  who  came  unarmed. 

From  that  Tuesday  evening  when  Helena  had  gone  on  to 
the  studio  from  the  office  with  her  news  of  that  interview  the 
previous  day  with  Jerome,  Guilford  Street  had  known  her  no 
more.  Just  before  the  telegraph  offices  closed  Hilary  had 
rushed  out  and  sent  Mrs.  Rogers  a  lie  across  the  wires.  That 
was  Intrigue's  first  move  in  the  game.  The  second  came  when 
on  the  following  day  Helena  called  and  elaborated  the  tele- 
gram that  lied.  These  things  can  be  done,  and  Jerome's  visit 
on  the  Monday  evening  to  Guilford  Street  helped  considerably. 

216 


STORM-WRACK  217 

It  was,  of  course,  quite  natural  that  Helena  should  be  rejoin- 
ing her  husband,  and,  besides,  Helena  did  it  all  extremely  well. 
She  told  her  lies  so  boldly  that  she  was  convinced  only  some  in- 
scrutable accident  had  prevented  her  long  since  from  embark- 
ing upon  a  life  of  crime. 

In  due  course  her  boxes  arrived  at  Hilary's  studio,  and  were 
pushed  well  back  beneath  his  bed  and  locked  against  the  prying 
eyes  of  people  who  came  to  clean. 

So  the  secret  was  born.  They  tended  it  continually  and 
nursed  it  with  care,  so  that  it  did  not  cry  overmuch  nor  dis- 
turb them  o'nights. 

They  were  convinced,  by  the  end  of  that  first  wonderful 
week,  that  no  one  suspected  its  existence  —  not  even  Evey  or 
Arthur,  whose  eyes  and  ears  were  sharper  than  most  people's. 

But  Helena  would  not  have  cared  if  they  had. 


By  the  end  of  the  next  week  Arthur  had.  .  .  . 

He  came  in  on  the  Friday  evening  and  he  exhibited  no  sort 
of  inclination  to  depart.  Eleven  o'clock  struck  and  Hilary, 
finding  an  excuse  to  follow  Helena  into  the  kitchen,  told  her  to 
put  on  her  things  and  say  good  night  as  if  she  were  going  home. 
"  Don't  come  back  before  twelve,  and  by  that  time  I'll  have 
got  rid  of  him.  Go  and  have  some  coffee  at  the  "Kindly 
Heart  " —  unless  you  can  think  of  anything  better. 

**  You  really  want,"  Helena  said,  "  to  keep  it  up  before 
Arthur?  You  won't  let  him  think  what  he  likes  —  or  tell  him 
the  truth?  " 

"  Dearest,  I  can't.  .  .  .  Not  yet.     We've  got  to  wait.  .  .  ." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  but  she  smiled  a  little  sadly, 
knowing  that  he  was  thinking  of  Jerome  .  .  .  that  he  believed 
they  would  beat  him  at  his  own  game.  That  was  because  he 
did  not  know  Jerome:  had  not  realised  yet  that  Jerome  Ruther- 
ford Courtney  did  not  "  fail,"  that  he  did  not  recognise  failure 
even  when  he  looked  into  its  chill  blank  countenance.  But 
Helena  knew  these  things.  And  she  smiled,  not  because  of 
them  but  because  of  Hilary's  optimism,  which  she  had  not  ex- 
pected, and  because  one  does  smile  at  optimism  when  one 
meets  it. 


218  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

So  Helena  put  on  her  hat,  collected  a  book,  wished  Arthur 
good  night  in  an  excellently  natural  manner,  and  went  out. 
She  turned  down  on  to  the  Embankment  in  the  direction  of  the 
"  Little  Restaurant  of  the  Kindly  Heart,"  where  she  and  Hilary 
often  went  together  and  sat  in  a  dim  corner  and  were,  happy. 
You  got  good  coffee  at  the  "Kindly  Heart,"  and,  not  infre- 
quently, good  company;  but  this  evening  it  was  almost  empty. 
There  was  a  young  man  sprawling  in  an  armchair  a  few 
tables  away,  and  even  in  the  execrable  light  of  the  little  res- 
taurant he  was  audaciously  mauve  as  to  shirt,  pink  as  to  tie 
and  open  as  to  socks.  He  was  talking  what  appeared  to  be 
sociology  of  sorts  to  a  young  woman  in  a  rakish  hat,  whose 
contributions  to  the  conversation  —  more  audible  than  those 
of  the  gaily-coloured  young  man  —  reached  Helena  in  sudden 
breathless  bursts. 

"The  middle-classes?  Oh  yes,  I  agree  .  .  .  hopeless  .  .  . 
of  course  .  .  .  Anti-everything  we  care  about.  .  .  .  Look  at 
the  suburbs.  I  hate  them,  don't  you?  Oh  yes,  fresh  air  and 
all  that,  .but.  .  .  .  Just  look  at  the  young  marrieds!  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  them?  They  will  live  in  flower-boxes, 
with  white  paint  and  polished  brass,  and  babies  with  heads 
like  the  floor  of  a  carpenter's  shop.  .  .  .  They  go  to  church  on 
Sundays  and  they  vote  straight  Tory  every  time,  like  the  snobs 
they  are.  So  will  the  women  when  they  get  a  vote.  You  can't 
blame  the  Liberal  Government  for  not  giving  it  to  them:  they 
know  they'd  be  swamped,  of  course.  .  .  .  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  people  of  this  sort?  They  won't  think.  That's 
why  I  hate  them  —  because  they  won't  think.  .  .  .  How  are 
you  going  to  alter  them?  I  s'pose  that's  what  you  want,  isn't 
it,  to  alter  them  —  somehow  ?  " 

In  the  other  corner  sat  a  couple  of  lovers  eating  macaroni 
and  cheese  between  prolonged  intervals  of  holding  hands  be- 
neath the  table.  When  the  voice  of  the  lady  with  the  rakish 
hat  reached  them  they  smiled  at  each  other,  rather,  Helena 
thought,  as  if  they  were  sorry  for  her.  Helena  wouldn't  have 
wondered  if  they  were  sorry  for  the  whole  world,  including 
herself  —  who  certainly  looked  lost  and  lonely  away  there  in 
her  own  particular  corner. 

She  ordered  a  coffee:  spun  it  out  until  half-past  eleven  and 
then  ordered  another.  The  macaroni  lovers  had  long  since 


STORM-WRACK  219 

departed,  and  at  five  minutes  to  twelve  the  sociological  young 
man  and  the  rakish-looking  young  woman  got  up  to  go.  They 
squabbled  a  bit  over  the  bill  until  finally  the  young  woman 
secured  and  prepared  to  settle  it.  "  Oh,  no,  this  is  my  do. .  .  ." 
The  young  man  got  back  to  his  sociology.  The  young  woman 
having  disposed  of  her  change,  stood  up  and  put  on  her  coat. 
"  London,"  she  said,  as  she  passed  Helena's  table  and  flung 
her  a  look,  "  London,  of  course,  ought  to  be  burnt  down." 

"  But  it  looks  quite  nice  at  night,"  the  gaily-coloured  young 
man  objected.  "  Come  out  and  look  at  the  stars." 

The  association  of  the  stars  and  this  fierce  young  woman 
somehow  made  Helena  smile.  She  was  still  smiling  when  the 
manageress  of  the  "  Kindly  Heart  "  came  over  and  said,  "  We 
close  at  twelve.  Two  coffees  wasn't  it?  Sixpence,  if  you 
please." 

Helena  paid  her  sixpence,  remarked  that  it  was  a  fine  night, 
and  departed. 

Outside  there  was  a  sky  sown  thick  and  palely  with  stars, 
amid  which  a  moon,  like  a  white  disc  pushed  slightly  out  of 
shape,  seemed  to  ride  serenely.  A  wind,  soft  as  down  and 
warm  from  the  throbbing  heart  of  June,  went  dancing  gaily 
along  the  Embankment,  over  which  Helena  leaned  for  a  while, 
hearing  only  the  faint  rumble  of  a  distant  train,  and  the  quiet 
lapping  of  the  tide. 

It  was  at  least  a  quarter -past  twelve  when  she  let  herself  in 
and  went  up  to  Hilary's  rooms.  Without  knocking,  she  turned 
the  handle  and  walked  in.  And  there,  just  exactly  where  she 
had  left  him,  sat  Arthur  Yeomans,  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

"  I  had  to  come  back,"  she  stammered,  "  I  couldn't  get 
home I  left  my  purse.  .  .  ." 

Arthur  got  up,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  not  waited  in 
vain.  Or  did  she  only  fancy  that? 

"  I'll  be  off,  old  chap,  he  said  to  Hilary.   "  Coming  down  ?  " 

They  went  out  together. 

"He  knew  all  the  time,"  Helena  thought,  "that's  why  h6 
waited.  He  wanted  to  make  certain." 

She  slipped  down  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  and  pulled  off 
her  hat.  She  sat  there  listening  to  the  sound  of  their  footsteps 
that  went  down  to  the  door,  passed  out  on  to  the  step  and  halted 
there.  The  sound  of  voices  —  muffled  and  indistinct  —  came 


220  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

to  her  as  she  sat  there,  hearing  the  soft  crackling  of  the  dying 
fire.  .  .  . 

She  was  tired  and  sleepy  —  an  ecstasy  of  weariness  that 
promised  dreamless  sleep.  She  yawned  and  began  to  take  the 
pins  out  of  her  hair.  It  fell  over  her  face,  and  without  push- 
ing it  back,  she  sat  on,  watching  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  through 
the  glinting  mass  of  it 


Hilary  qame  in  at  last,  pulled  the  blue  curtain  over  the  door, 
shot  its  little  brass  bolt  and  slipped  down  beside  her. 

Something  of  her  sleepiness  slid  from  her  as  his  arm  came 
round  her. 

"Well?  "she  asked. 

"  Guessed,"  Hilary  said,  his  lips  on  her  hair. 

"-Oh,  I  knew  that.     I  meant,  how  did  he  take  it?  " 

"As  I  always  told  you  he  would.  Arthur  hasn't  the  mind 
of  a  Baptist.  He's  broad.  Doesn't  see  how  we  can  do  any- 
thing else  if  we're  as  sure  of  ourselves  as  I  assert.  'And  we 
are,  aren't  we?  " 

"  Surer,"  she  said. 

"  He  wanted  to  know  just  where  things  stood  —  with  Court- 
ney. He  suggests  I  run  up  to  Rattenby,  the  sooner  the 
better.  Thinks  he  might  be  amenable  to  reason  now  that 
we've  really  taken  the  law  into  our  hands.  What  do  you 
think?  Any  good?  " 

Sitting  with  her  head  on  Hilary's  shoulder  she  had  to  stifle 
the  **  No,  none  <at  all  "  that  was  on  her  lips.  What  she  did 
say  was  "  You  can  try."  She  made  a  wry  face.  "  But  it'll  be 
horrid." 

"Think  he'll  shoot  me?  " 

"  He's  much  more  likely  to  ignore  you." 

"  And  you  think  it's  worse  to  be  ignored  than  to  be  shot?  " 

"  I  fancy  it  must  hurt  more." 

He  laughed,  holding  her  close,  kissing  her  mouth  through 
the  veil  of  glinting  hair  before  she  broke  away. 

"  Let's  look  up  trains  at  once,"  she  said. 

There  was,  they  discovered,  a  twelve-five  from  King's  Cross 
which  Hilary  could  catch  quite  well  on  the  following  evening 


STORM-WRACK  221 

when  the  Crowd  had  departed.  It  would  reach  Halifax  about 
six  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  if  there  was  no  connection  to 
Rattenby  he  could,  so  Helena  said,  who  knew  all  about  this 
sort  of  thing,  quite  easily  charter  a  car  to  run  him  out.  It 
rather  amused  her,  she  found,  to  reflect  that  Hilary  might 
arrive  at  "  Windward  "  in  a  grey  "  Courtney." 

She  lay  awake  that  night  long  after  Hilary  was  asleep, 
thinking  of  Hilary's  journey  and  the  futility  of  it.  Because 
Jerome  was  not  going  to  be  "  amenable  to  reason."  Let  Arthur 
think  it  if  he  liked.  .  .  .  When  she  thought  of  Jerome  now- 
adays she  was  angry.  She  had  been  sorry  for  him,  but  that 
had  passed.  Anger  had  eaten  up  her  pity;  she  had  been  right 
—  anger  left  no  room  for  anything  but  itself.  Something  in 
her  had  hardened  queerly.  Of  herself,  she  was  very  sure. 
She  had  done  Jerome  a  wrong,  but  he,  too,  much  earlier,  had 
done  her  a  wrong  that  seemed  infinitely  greater.  He  had 
married  her  knowing  that  she  did  not  love  him.  True,  she  had 
not  then  loved  anybody  else:  but  there  had,  surely,  always 
been  the  possibility  that  one  day  she  might.  She  had  not  then 
properly  understood  that,  but  Jerome  was  many  years  older 
than  she,  and  he  must  have  known.  Working  it  out  for  herself, 
these  new  strange  days,  that  was  the  conclusion  at  which  she 
had  arrived.  That  Jerome  had  known  and  she  had  not.  It 
cut  somehow,  at  the  very  base  of  their  union.  Somehow  or 
other,  it  didn't,  to  her,  seem  honest.  .  .  . 

He  must  have  lived  with  it  all  that  first  year  —  that  ugly 
spectre  of  her  potential  lover.  And  now  that  it  was  no  spectre 
but  the  lover  himself  who  had  appeared,  Jerome  shut  his  eyes 
and  refused  to  see.  That,  too,  didn't  seem  quite  honest.  More 
courageous  than  'Jerome,  she  faced  the  situation  and  stared  it 
out  of  countenance.  She  believed  that  in  the  circumstances 
she  and  Hilary  were  justified.  There  was  no  sense  in  finding 
excuses  for  oneself,  and  she  simply  was  not  able  to  understand 
how  this  life  with  Hilary  was  wrong  when  that  with  Jerome 
had  been  right.  She  just  could  not  see  what  marriage  —  the 
mere  civil  formality  —  had  to  do  with  it,  and  it  was  incredible 
to  her  that  a  man  should  want  to  keep  someone  who  did  not 
want  to  stay.  What  was  it  worth  if  that  was  all  love  was  — 
just  possession,  the  staking  out  of  a  claim?  Love  wasn't  pos- 
session, nor  just  emotion:  not  desire  nor  sentimentality.  Love 


222  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

was  understanding,  and  freedom  and  mutual  respect.  It  was 
the  dew  on  the  morning,  the  stars  in  the  evening  sky.  .  .  . 

She  remembered  what  Hilary  had  once  said  to  her.  "  More 
nonsense  is  talked  about  love  than  about  anything  else  :n  the 
world.  Think  of  our  plays,  our  novels,  our  poems,  even!  Yet 
how  many  people,  do  you  suppose,  ever  fall  in  love?  " 

They  had  worked  it  out  between  them  to  a  miserable  per- 
centage. Not  one  in  fifty,  they  agreed.  Most  people  did 
without  the  dew  on  the  morning  —  did  not  look  at  the  stars 
o'nights.  Neither  of  them  would  have  included  Jerome  in 
their  miserable  percentage  that  did.  Neither  of  them  was  in 
the  mood  to  call  —  that  —  love. 

She  fell  asleep  presently,  her  head  on  Hilary's  shoulder,  her 
face  against  his,  one  arm  thrown  across  him  and  her  hair  a 
spread  delight  in  the  white  rays  of  the  moon. 

4 

The  next  evening  was  wet  —  outrageously  wet  —  so  that  only 
Jimmy  and  Nelly,  Barbara  and  the  Grettons  turned  up. 
Jimmy  was  spruce,  elegant  and  cheerful,  despite  the  rain  (he 
had  probably  arrived  in  a  taxi)  and  he  rushed  in  and  shook 
Helena  affectionately  by  the  hand. 

"  Fancy  meeting  you,  Mrs.  Courtney.  .  .  .  Made  sure  you 
were  back  in  Yorkshire  by  this  time.  Ran  into  your  husband 
one  day  last  week  —  Monday,  I  believe  it  was,  anyway,  we  had 
lunch  together  —  and  he  told  me  he  was  dragging  you  off  that 
very  evening.  .  .  ." 

She  escaped  after  a  while  to  Nelly,  who  sat  back  against 
Hilary's  cushions  listening  to  what  Stella  Gretton  was  saying. 
Nelly  looked  tired.  She  told  Helena  that  that  was  how  she 
felt  She  had  just  had  an  offer  of  marriage  and  had  refused 
it.  Saying  "  no  "  firmly  yet  gently,  it  seemed,  was  a  terribly 
exhausting  business.  "You  see,"  she  said  to  Helena  when 
Jimmy  came  up  and  began  to  be  amusing  to  Stella,  "  you  see, 
my  dear,  the  man's  poor  —  rather  a  darling,  of  course,  but 
miserably  poor  —  and  I  can't  cook.  You  know  what  Mrs. 
Berry  says:  Kissing  dont  last:  good  cookery  do." 

"  You  couldn't  learn  to  cook,  I  suppose?  "  Helena  inquired. 

"  No,  I'm  quite  sure  I  couldn't,  Lena.     If  it  were  a  case  of 


STORM-WRACK  223 

love's  young  dream,  I  might.  But  it  ain't,  my  dear:  it  ain't 
even  anything  remotely  approaching  it.  Ten  years  ago  I 
might  have  gone  to  live  in  villadom  with  an  easy  mind.  But 
now  it  would  annoy  me  to  hear  my  neighbours  sneeze,  and 
they  wouldn't  approve  of  me  because  I  don't  believe  in  cleaning 
steps  and  shouldn't  take  a  pride  in  my  door-knocker.  Subur- 
ban ideals  are  beyond  me.  Always  were." 

"  Can't  one  live  without  the  approval  of  one's  neighbours?  " 

"  Not  in  Suburbia,  my  dear." 

"  But  out  of  it?  " 

"  You  don't  have  neighbours  anywhere  else.  And  no  Mrs. 
Grundy.  It's  only  in  Suburbia  you  have  to  frame  your  mar- 
riage certificate  and  produce  your  banker's  pass-book." 

"  Hilary  wouldn't  agree  with  you." 

"Hilary?  Oh,  but  Hilary's  not  in  love,  so  he  needn't 
worry." 

"Don't  you  think  he  has  been  in  love  —  ever?  " 

"  Oh  yes  —  in  love  with  faces  or  heads  of  hair.  But  Hilary 
wouldn't  marry  a  face  or  a  head  of  hair,  thank  God.  Sensible 
people  get  over  that  sort  of  thing.  I  remember  being  in  love 
once  with  a  nose  —  a  really  beautiful  nose  it  was  —  and  an- 
other time  it  was  a  mouth  that  Rossetti  might  have  painted. 
On  the  whole,  however,  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  was  the  nose 
which  gave  me  the  worst  time.  Good  noses  are  so  rare.  We 
needs  must  love  the  straightest  when  we  see  it." 

Helena  laughed. 

"  You  got  over  the  nose,  did  you?  " 

"  I  got  away  from  it  —  which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
God  was  very  good  to  me." 

Somewhere  in  the  house  a  clock  struck  ten. 

"  Nelly,"  Helena  said  suddenly,  "  do  something  for  me, 
will  you?  " 

"  Anything,"  said  Nelly,  "  short  of  a  murder.  A  murder 
would  be  as  exhausting  as  matrimony." 

"  Get  rid  of  everybody  for  me,  will  you?  " 

"  Oh,  a  massacre,"  said  Nelly. 

**  Don't  laugh.  It's  serious.  They  must  all  be  gone  by 
eleven." 

"  You  think  they  look  as  though  they're  going  to  stay  later?  " 

**  Well,  look  at  Barbara  and  Stephen.     They're  talking  to 


224  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Hilary  about  that  new  man  —  Gaudier  Brzeska,  isn't  that  his 
name?  Hilary's  awfully  keen  on  him,  but  all  the  people  he 
draws  seem  to  me  to  have  at  least  six  things  physically  the  mat- 
ter with  them.  And  I'm  sure  they've  all  had  rickets  in  their 
childhood.  Hilary  agrees,  but  says  that  doesn't  prevent  him 
from  admiring  them  —  as  works  of  art.  Do  you  understand 
that?  I  don't.  Anyway,  Hilary's  forgotten  our  existence. 
I  don't  see  what  is  to  prevent  them  going  on  for  hours." 

"And  they  mustn't  after  eleven?     What's  on?  " 

"  Nothing,  except  that  Hilary  has  a  train  to  catch." 

"He's  not  going  away?  Don't  say  he's  going  to  shut  up 
in  June?  " 

"  Oh  no  —  this  is  only  a  flying  visit  to  Yorkshire." 

"  I  thought  he'd  given  Yorkshire  up.  He  used  to  go  up 
there  two  or  three  times  a  year.  He  had  a  perfect  passion  for 
Yorkshire.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Suddenly  he  stopped 
going  altogether.  I  used  to  think  there  might  be  a  girl  in  it." 

"The  Bronte  sisters,"  Helena  murmured. 

Nelly  laughed.  "  By  the  way,"  she  said,  "  isn't  Yorkshire 
your  county?  " 

"  It  was,"  Helena  admitted. 

"  Was.    Aren't  you  going  back?  " 

"  No." 

Nelly  looked  thoughtful.  "You  seem  pretty  final  about  it, 
my  dear,"  she  said. 

"  I  feel  final  about  it,"  Helena  said.  "  Let's  go  over  to  the 
others,  shall  we?  " 

Barbara  and  Hilary  smiled  at  them  abstractedly.  But  in 
five  minutes  talk  about  Brzeska  had  languished  and  died, 
shocked  out  of  existence  by  Nelly's  persistent  and  cavernous 
yawning. 

"You  ought  to  go  home,"  Barbara  said.  "Anybody  with 
any  sense  of  decency  would  —  and  pull  the  blinds  down. 
You're  as  depressing  as  Hamlet  playing  Malvolio." 

But  with  Brzeska  shelved  they  began  talking  quite  generally 
about  books,  the  plays  they  had  seen  lately,  the  music  of 
Moussorgsky  and  the  dream-theories  of  Professor  Freud. 
Those,  they  found,  convicted  the  lot  of  them  of  pronounced 
"  thwarted  tendencies  "  to  criminality,  but  for  some  reason  or 
other  they  were  not,  any  of  them,  particularly  interested  in 


STORM-WRACK  225 

themselves  as  potential  criminals,  so  that  it  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  dull  evening. 

And,  regarding  the  empty  room  at  five  minutes  to  eleven, 
Helena  reflected  that  Nelly  was  really  clever. 


They  had  supper  and  they  washed  up  (together,  because 
only  in  very  special  circumstances  did  either  wait  upon  the 
other).  The  simplicity  of  Helena's  new  life,  after  the  com- 
plications of  that  domestic  machine  at  "  Windward,"  after 
Mrs.  Rogers's  exhausting  tussle  with  the  things  of  the  house, 
amazed  her  continually.  So  many  houses  had  the  trick  not  of 
being  possessed  but  of  possessing.  They  "  got "  you  body 
and  soul.  Your  whole  life,  if  you  were  a  woman,  became  one 
long  devotion  to  them.  You  offered  them  incense  day  and 
night:  you  could  never  escape.  Even  money,  here,  did  not 
seem  to  help:  certainly  not  if  you  cared  overmuch  for  the 
things  that  money  could  buy.  And  most  people  did,  so  that 
the  more  money  you  had  the  more  intricate  life  became.  And 
if  you  had  no  money  it  was  nothing  but  a  sordid  drudging. 
Hilary  and  Helena,  balanced  happily  between  these  two  ex- 
tremes, wondered  sometimes  which  was  the  worse.  To-night 
Hilary  was  even  magnanimous.  He  did  not  omit  to  remember 
that,  as  washer,  it  was  his  duty  to  attend  to  the  sink  and  bowl, 
even  though  he  knew  this  evening  that  he  could  so  easily  have 
got  out  of  it. 

Back  again  by  the  fire  he  held  her  presently  in  his  arms,  as 
if  for  no  train  on  earth  could  he  let  her  go  —  seeing,  as  she 
did,  nothing  at  all  but  that  one  blank  night  and  day,  that 
looked  like  a  century. 

"  I  think,  even  now,"  he  said,  "  that  you  ought  to  come." 

She  couldn't  think  why  she  wouldn't  —  some  queer  idea 
that  he  ought  to  be  free:  another,  more  queer,  that  she  must 
learn  to  do  without  him;  and  still  another,  that  she  would  not 
be  dragged  at  his  heels,  an  erring  wife,  pleading  for  mercy, 
consideration.  ...  It  was  not,  somehow,  her  pride  but  her 
sense  of  humour  that  forbade  her. 

"  I'm  not  coming,"  she  said,  lifting  her  face  to  his.  "  And 
you  must  hurry.  You've  not  a  minute  to  spare," 


226  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

But  when  he  had  really  gone,  and  the  grinding  gear  of  his 
taxi  had  faded  out  into  the  other  massed  and  indeterminate 
sounds  of  the  night,  she  felt  suddenly  cold  and  spiritless,  and 
when  she  got  into  bed  she  could  not  sleep.  Outside  the  wind 
still  hovered  and  the  rain  lashed  the  window-pane.  A  clock 
in  the  house  struck  midnight,  and  she  thought  of  Hilary's 
train  steaming  out  of  the  station  into  the  cavernous  tunnel 
that  yawned  for  it  immediately  beyond.  But  in  the  morning 
he  would  see  the  dawn  over  the  moors.  She  knew  so  well  the 
aspect  of  the  moors  after  a  night  of  rain  —  the  white  clouds 
heaped  riotously  by  the  hand  of  the  wind ;  the  patches  of  bright 
blue  in  the  stooping  sky.  A  procession  of  Yorkshire  names 
filed  rapidly  through  her  mind,  places  she  knew  and  loved,  to 
which  earlier  that  evening  she  had  said  she  would  never  go 
back.  And  on  top  of  them  came  another  list  of  places  — 
places  that  Hilary  knew  and  loved  and  which,  as  he  had  said 
a  thousand  times,  he  wanted  to  see  again  with  her.  Bruges, 
Brussels,  Antwerp,  Paris,  Florence,  Rome,  Capri.  .  .  .  And 
suddenly  she  understood  what  it  meant  to  him,  and  why  he 
wanted  it.  Because,  at  this  moment,  she  wanted,  above  all 
things,  to  stand  up  there  on  Rattenby  moor  with  Hilary,  watch- 
ing the  red  sun  come  up  behind  Haffington  Ridge. 

In  the  big  bed  she  grew  intolerably  lonely.  She  slipped  out 
and  opened  the  door.  There  in  the  studio  the  unseasonable 
fire  still  burned,  and  in  its  warmth,  stretched  out  in  slumber 
on  Hilary's  blue  rug,  lay  Mark  Antony  —  an  ecstasy  in  ebony. 
She  stooped,  picked  him  up,  and  stood  for  an  instant  with  his 
black  body  against  hers,  white-gowned;  and  in  the  fire  golden 
on  both.  She  snuggled  him  close  in  her  arms  and  took  him 
back  with  her,  and  Mark  Antony,  whose  passion  for  sleeping 
on  beds  needed  but  small  encouragement,  sang  loudly  and 
licked  her  face.  In  some  queer  fashion,  she  found,  he  solaced 
the  sudden  surprising  ache  of  body  and  mind. 


She  met  Hilary  the  next  evening  at  King's  Cross.  They  got 
into  a  taxi  and  sat  together  in  the  corner  of  it,  taking  solace 
for  their  brief  separation  in  the  quiet  joy  of  reunion.  Helena's 
hat  lay  at  her  side,  her  burnished  head  on  Hilary's  shoulder. 


STORM-WRACK  227 

She  did  not  care  that  his  mission  had  failed,  as  she  saw  from 
his  face  it  had,  and  as  she  had  known  it  would.  What  did  it 
matter?  What  did  anything  matter  —  now? 

London,  to-night,  seemed  unusually  noisy.  Though  it  was 
Sunday  the  strains  of  a  barrel  organ  were  discernible  through 
the  incessant  roar  of  things.  The  youth  of  Euston  Road  held 
high  revelry  at  street  corners:  from  somewhere  at  the  back  a 
woman  shrieked.  Motor  traffic  dashed  past  and  past,  and 
shrill  above  all  other  sound  came  the  raucous  voices  of  the 
newsboys. 

"Pipeyer!  Pipeyer!  Extry  speshul!  'Orrible  noos  ter- 
night.  .  .  ." 

Hilary  put  up  the  windows,  not  quite  shutting  out  the  cries. 
"Extry  speshul   .    .    .'orrible  'sassination  of  H'Archdook. 
Pipeyer!  " 

"  Horrible  what?  "  asked  Helen  lazily. 

"  Oh,  some  Sunday  paper  tragedy,  I  expect,"  Hilary  told 
her.  "  Providence  keeps  a  special  watch  over  the  needs  of 
the  Sunday  placards:  they're  never  at  a  loss." 

During  a  block  in  the  traffic  Helena  caught  a  sudden  sight 
of  one  of  them.  "  Look,"  she  said,  "  it  isn't  a  murder  in  a 
back  street,  after  all." 

"  'Orrible  noos  .  .  .  'orrible  noos  from  the  Ballkins," 
yelled  a  boy. 

Hilary  put  down  the  window  and  called  to  him. 
"  Here,  what's  up?  " 

"  'Ere  y'are,  sir.  H'Archdook  murdered.  .  .  .  H'Archdook 
and  his  missus  .  .  .  'Orrible  noos  .  .  .  'orrible  noos.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  Lord,"  said  Hilary,  opening  his  paper  as  they  moved 
on,  "  who'd  be  an  Archduke,  eh?  " 
"  Or  his  missus,"  Helena  said. 

Against  Hilary's  shoulder  her  head  was  very  comfortable. 
She  pressed  the  closer  while  he  gave  her  the  news.  It  was 
"  horrible  "  indeed.  The  Archduke  Franz  Ferdinand  and  the 
Duchess  of  Hohenberg  had  been  assassinated  at  Sarajevo.  The 
murderer  had  been  arrested.  To  the  lovers  it  seemed  a  very 
sordid  business,  and  not  really  interesting.  Sarajevo  was  a 
long  way  off,  and  neither  of  them  would  have  known  who 
the  Archduke  was  if  the  paper  had  not  informed  them. 

"  Some    political    reason,    of    course,"    Helena    said.     **  I 


228  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

shouldn't  like  to  be  killed  for  a  political  reason,  somehow. 
Would  you?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  killed  for  any  reason  whatever,"  Hilary 
said,  growing  tired  of  the  paper  and  throwing  it  down  on  the 
floor  of  the  cab.  Assassinations  were  horrible  but  they  were 
also  dull,  unless  you  were  taking  a  principal  part.  Why  talk 
of  foreign  princes  and  their  woes?  Life  presented  so  many 
other  problems  that  seemed  to  him  so  much  more  important. 
Politics  bored  him:  no  one  ever  took  them  less  seriously. 
He  put  an  arm  round  Helena  and  pressed  her  warm  body  up 
against  his.  Why  think  of  blood  and  sudden  death  on  this 
night  of  reunion?  They  were  so  young  and  had  so  much  else 
to  think  of.  ... 

"You've  guessed,  haven't  you,  how  it  was?  "  he  asked,  and 
felt  her  head  nodding  "  yes  "  against  his  shoulder.  "  Tell  me," 
she  said. 

There  was  very  little  to  tell,  he  said.  Courtney  had  been 
perfectly  polite  and  perfectly  unreasonable.  There  had  been 
no  scene.  He  was  just  not  going  to  stir  a  ringer.  Sooner  or 
later  his  wife  would  come  back.  You  couldn't  shake  him  on 
that  point.  He  was  even,  Hilary  gathered,  manufacturing 
excuses  of  a  highly  plausible  nature  for  her  non-appearance  at 
"  Windward." 

"  He  expects,  you  know,"  Hilary  said,  "  to  get  you  on  the 
rebound." 

"And  what,  just  exactly,  does  that  mean?  These  sporting 
terms  are  beyond  me." 

"  It  means  that  you'll  be  glad  enough  to  have  him  waiting 
there  for  you  .  .  .  when  I'm  tired  of  you." 

"  Chucked  me.     That's  the  expression,  isn't  it?  " 

It  was,  he  said,  but  she  was  not  to  use  it. 

'  Why  not  ?     I'm  not  afraid." 

'Aren't  you?" 

'  Not  a  bit." 

'  But  you  see  the  position?  " 

'  Oh,  clearly.  I'm  an  infatuated  fool  and  you're  a  scoun- 
drel." 

He  pulled  her  up  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  All  artists  are  scoundrels,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  know 
that?  " 


STORM-WRACK  229 

**  One  of  them,  at  least,  is  a  nice  scoundrel." 

"  You  don't  want  him  altered?  " 

"  Not  the  least  little  bit." 

It  was  a  long  while  after  that  when  Hilary  came  suddenly 
down  to  earth  again. 

"All  the  same,  Deirdre,  it's  wrong.  Love  ought  not  to  be 
like  this.  It's  outrageous  it  should  be  like  this  —  for  us! 
Don't  you  feel  that?  " 

She  shook  her  head.     He  went  on. 

"And  if  we  have  any  children  they'd  have  a  rotten  time 
.  .  .  They  always  do  —  the  illegitimates." 

"  That's  a  much  too  sweeping  statement,"  she  said,  "  but  we 
needn't  have  any  children  if  you  feel  like  that  about  it." 

"  I  know.     But  we  may  want  some.  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  but  you.  .  .  ." 

He  said  nothing  to  that,  save,  "  Oh,  Deirdre,  Deirdre.  .  .  ." 

"  Let's  go  on  as  we  are,"  Helena  said.  "  We're  happy.  We 
are,  aren't  we?  Well,  let's  go  on.  Don't  think,  don't 
think.  .  .  ." 

"  We've  got  to  go  on.     We  can't  help  ourselves  .  .  .  now." 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  could." 

"  You're  stronger,  you  know,  Deirdre,  than  I  am.  Finer, 
somehow.  I  think  you're  wonderful." 

"  That's  absurd  —  the  silliest  thing  I've  ever  heard  you  say. 
I  don't  feel  as  you  do  about  it.  That's  all  there  is  in  it.  To 
praise  me  for  my  attitude  is  like  praising  Nelson  for  his  courage 
and  saying  that  he  was  born  without  the  sense  of  fear.  If 
he  didn't  know  what  fear  was  his  courage  was  no  credit  to  him. 
It's  like  being  born  beautiful  or  ugly  —  rich  or  poor.  You've 
no  choice  in  the  matter.  I  don't  care  one  little  bit  about  the 
marriage  service  or  what  other  people  think  of  me.  You  do. 
So  the  *  fineness  '  belongs  to  you,  not  to  me." 

"  You're  a  nice  comforting  Deirdre,"  Hilary  said.  "  I  hope 
you  mean  it  all." 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it." 

"  But  you  do  tell  lies  —  these  days.  .  .  ." 

'*  Not  that  sort  of  lie  —  and  not  to  you." 

"  Don't  ever.  We'll  always  tell  each  other  the  truth,  Deirdre. 
Let's  swear  it,  now.  Even  when  it's  bad  hearing  it  shall  still 
be  the  truth.  God  help  us!  " 


230  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Always,"  she  said.  "  Lies  between  us  would  be  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end,  and  there's  never  going  to  be  an  end  — 
for  us." 

She  felt  his  lips  on  her  hair  and  fell,  suddenly,  to  a  pas- 
sionate kissing  of  his  hands. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  presently,  "we'll  just  wait  for  the 
autumn  shows,  and  then  we'll  go  over  to  Bruges  and  see  things. 
We'll  spend  a  whole  year  over  it,  and  Bletchington  will  have 
to  find  another  editorial  secretary.  If  you'll  give  me  every 
minute  you  can  spare  I  can  finish  the  '  Deirdre '  in  time  for 
the  Draycott  Gallery.  I'd  like  it  to  be  hung  there." 

She  promised  him  her  every  spare  minute;  laid  them  in  a 
passionate  heap  at  his  feet,  heard  him  say  that  he  could  work 
now  that  he  had  her  as  he  had  never  worked  before  —  as  he 
would  never  work  again  if  he  lost  her. 

"  You  won't  lose  me,"  she  said,  "  why  will  you  be  so  silly?  " 

He  kissed  her  closely  and  long  as  she  turned  up  her  happy 
face  to  his  —  a  kiss  from  which  she  broke  away  with  a  little 
laugh  that  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  sob,  to  realise  that  the 
taxi  had  stopped  and  the  driver,  despairing  of  getting  them  to 
understand  that  they  had  reached  their  destination,  was  opening 
the  door  for  them  by  performing  a  gymnastic  feat  with  his 
arm  from  where  he  sat.  Helena  jumped  out  and  ran,  hatless, 
up  the  steps  to  the  door.  Hilary  paid  the  fare  and  came  after 
her,  carrying  her  forgotten  hat. 

The  taxi-driver  seemed  to  think  he  had  got  hold  of  a  queer 
pair. 

They  went  into  the  broad  stone  hall  and  up  the  wide  stairs 
to  the  studio,  and  there,  sunk  deeo  in  the  shadow,  they  made 
out  a  brooding  masculine  form. 

"Hallo,"  said  Philip  Roscoe's  voice.  "This  is  a  cheerful 
piece  of  news,  isn't  it?  " 


They  discovered  presently  that  he  was  talking  about  the 
Balkan  murder  which  they  had  dismissed  long  ages  ago  — 
that  he  was  so  excited  about  it  he  had  come  round  to  talk  about 
it  to  somebody  else.  He  had  tried  Evey  over  the  'phone,  and 
Evev  had  said  she  was  engaged  to  go  with  her  sister  to  some 


STORM-WRACK  231 

concert  or  other  at  which  Desiree  was  playing.  She  couldn't 
possibly,  she  said,  get  out  of  it.  Hilary  laughed  and  privately 
wished  Phil,  for  once,  at  Jerusalem.  So  did  Helena.  She  did 
not  to-night  want  to  talk  to  him  or  to  hear  him  talk,  and  she 
thought  that  Evey  ought  to  have  "  got  out  of  "  the  concert, 
because  if  Phil  really  had  to  discuss  this  horrible  murder  with 
somebody,  obviously  Evey  ought  to  have  been  the  somebody. 
She  dived  into  the  kitchen  to  make  coffee,  and  when  she  came 
back  Phil,  in  a  hard  excited  voice  was  saying: 

"  Continental  politics,  my  dear  old  chap !  Good  God, 
they're  not.  I  wish  to  hell  they  were.  This  is  European, 
Hilary.  Britain's  in  it,  and  France,  and  Germany.  .  .  ." 

"  In  what?  "  Helena  asked,  putting  down  her  tray. 

"  In  the  European  war  that's  coming." 

Helena  laughed.  So  did  Hilary.  Really,  Phil  was  rather 
mad  on  this  subject  of  international  warfare. 

"What  nonsense!  The  death  of  two  people  to  plunge 
Europe  into  war!  " 

War!  Of  course  there  was  not  going  to  be  war.  The  thing 
was  ridiculous.  Phil  was  merely  riding  this  diplomatic  hobby 
of  his  to  death.  ...  Of  course  there  was  not  going  to  be  war. 

And  yet  here  was  Phil  saying  steadily  and  gloomily  that 
there  was.  Sitting  there  stirring  her  coffee  it  seemed  to 
Helena  presently  that  behind  the  quiet  sound  of  his  voice  you 
might  hear,  if  you  listened,  another  —  the  measured  tramp, 
tramp  of  armed  men,  marching  out  in  the  bright  sunshine  to 
die.  . 


BOOK  IV 
WASTE  SHORES 


CHAPTER  ONE 


IN  the  pale  rays  of  the  February  sun  Hilary  stood  frowning 
at  his  new  picture,  that  he  called  "  Interior."     What  he 
had  done  since  lunch  did  not  please  him;  but  it  would 
have  surprised  him  if  it  had,  because  these  were  not  "  paint- 
ing "  days.     One  does  not  do  good  work  with  one's  mind  on 
something  else. 

And  that,  nowadays,  was  where  Hilary's  mind  usually  was. 

After  all,  what  did  painting  matter  —  good  or  bad  —  when 
one  remembered  that  down  there  in  the  street  beneath  the  quiet 
sky  of  a  windless  afternoon  the  young  recruits  went  swinging 
by? 

"  It's  no  good,"  he  said,  "  they  just  won't  mix." 

Helena  did  not  ask  what  it  was  that  wouldn't  "  mix."  She 
knew.  He  meant  painting  and  war.  But  she  got  up  and  came 
across  to  look  at  the  picture  he  was  abandoning.  "  Interior  " 
was  a  study  of  the  window  corner  of  the  studio,  with  Helena 
in  her  workaday  frock,  sitting  with  bent  head  over  a  book  in 
the  path  of  the  sun.  It  had  been  begun  in  the  gush  of 
enthusiasm  that  followed  the  acceptance  of  the  "  Deirdre " 
by  the  Draycott  Committee,  in  those  queer  far-off  days  be- 
fore August,  1914.  But  there  were  times  when  Helena  thought 
it  would  never  be  finished  at  all;  for  Hilary  had  said  that  so 
often  —  that  war  and  painting  wouldn't  mix.  .  .  . 

"  Can't  you  really  go  on,  dear?  "  she  asked,  "  the  day's  so 
good." 

Hilary  said  nothing  as  he  turned  his  picture  to  the  wall  and 
began  to  wash  his  brushes.  And  Helena  said  nothing  either. 
But  she  thought  of  all  the  other  things  that  these  days  had 
been  turned  to  the  wall  —  youth  and  light-heartedness;  joy, 
beauty;  the  things  that  were  real  and  enduring.  .  .  . 

"  Let's  go  out,  shall  we?  "  Hilary  said  presently.  "  Isn't 
it  time  we  looked  Richmond  up?  " 

235 


236  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

It  was  weeks  since  they  had  been  to  Richmond:  walking 
abroad  was  no  occupation  these  days  for  the  young  and  fit. 
There  were  too  many  things  against  it.  ...  The  red  hand 
with  its  pointing  finger;  the  women  who  stared;  the  White 
Feather  Tribe  that  hunted  in  couples;  the  eternal  march  of 
the  khaki-clad.  .  .  .  One  did  not  "  spend  "  one's  odd  after- 
noons, so  much  as  fritter  them  away,  these  days,  having  as  little 
heart  for  leisure  as  for  work.  .  .  . 

But  a  sudden  passion  seized  them  this  afternoon  for  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  Park,  the  glint  of  the  river  —  bright  like 
polished  steel  —  beneath  the  wintry  sunshine;  and  for  a 
sight  of  some  of  the  old  sweet  things  they'd  bundled  back  be- 
hind the  curtain  they  did  not  dare  to  lift. 

They  went  out  and  climbed  on  to  a  passing  'bus. 


They  sat,  as  in  old  times,  on  a  front  seat,  with  linked  arms, 
but  they  said  little.  Riding  on  'buses  had  ceased,  since  August, 
1914,  to  be  the  hilarious  adventure  it  once  had  been;  for 
'buses  nowadays  had  the  disconcerting  trick  of  coming  to  a 
standstill  in  the  traffic  before  a  recruiting  station  or  of  con- 
stituting themselves  an  honorable  rearguard  to  a  company  of 
volunteers. 

The  afternoon  was  beautiful  —  unusually  beautiful  for  Feb- 
ruary, as  every  now  and  then  somebody  on  the  'bus  said  to 
somebody  else,  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  saw  neither  the 
posters,  the  volunteers  nor  the  ubiquitous  pointing  finger, 
and  were  strong-minded  enough  to  refrain  from  reading  Mr. 
Begbie's  recruiting  verses.  Perhaps,  too,  in  this  bright  sun- 
shine (or  because  of  it)  they  were  able  to  forget  what  was 
happening  out  there  in  France  and  Belgium. 

But  that  was  just  exactly  what  neither  Hilary  nor  Helena 
could  do.  They  had  the  war  on  the  brain,  like  most  people  — 
only,  perhaps,  more  so.  ... 


Hilary,  of  course,  would  have  felt  better  about  it  if  he'd 
been  in  khaki  ...  or,  perhaps,  if  certain  other  people  had 


WASTE  SHORES  237 

not  been.    That,  at  this  stage,  was  what  it  seemed  almost  to 
amount  to. 

You  got  at  his  position  in  regard  to  the  war  easily  enough. 
He  had  no  romantic  or  idealistic  illusions  about  it:  and  was 
incapable  of  finding  consolation  in  the  comfortable  apportion- 
ment of  blame  the  Press  meted  out  among  the  belligerents. 
He  could  see,  at  any  rate,  a  good  deal  further  than  that  .  .  . 
knew  that  things  didn't  happen  quite  that  way  —  that  it  wasn't 
only  the  man  who  put  the  match  to  the  gunpowder  trail  who 
was  responsible  for  the  explosion.  The  war,  so  Hilary  rea- 
soned, had  occurred  because  people  hadn't  cared  enough  to 
prevent  it  ...  because  people  would  not  combine  to  fight  it. 
War  was  nothing  if  not  the  outcome  of  bankrupt  statesmanship: 
that  muddled  along  on  secret  alliances  and  ententes,  the 
Balance  of  Power  and  armies  and  navies  in  a  perpetual  state 
of  rivalry.  On  this  question  of  internationalism  the  world 
was  mad.  The  question  for  Hilary  (and  the  only  question,  as 
it  seemed,  just  now)  was:  Would  it  have  been  quite  so  mad 
if  people  had  cared  a  little  to  prevent  it  ...  if  they  had 
cared,  say,  as  much  as  Philip  had  cared?  And  he  never  forgot 
that  he  —  Hilary  —  had  never  cared  at  all  ...  that  politics 
—  especially  the  foreign  variety  —  had  bored  him  always  to 
extinction.  .  .  . 

There  was,  too,  the  question  of  Belgium.  Belgium,  it  is 
true,  had  made  warriors  of  so  many  who  might  otherwise  have 
remained  as  they  were  —  artists,  clerks,  tailors,  plumbers,  bill- 
posters, bakers,  newsvendors,  or  something  equally  non- 
belligerent and  sociable.  But  Hilary  did  not  believe  that 
England  had  gone  into  the  war  because  of  Belgium.  Sir 
Edward  Grey,  right  at  the  first,  had  made  that  clear  enough: 
but  Hilary  was  ready  to  agree  that  Belgium  outraged  had 
given  the  necessary  spur  of  idealism  and  sentiment  to  the 
British  cause.  "  A  god-send  to  our  bungling  diplomats," 
Philip  had  called  the  invasion  of  Belgium,  and  —  well,  Hilary 
happened  to  think  that  Philip  was  right. 

Only,  somehow,  that  didn't,  with  Hilary,  make  the  minutest 
shade  of  difference.  Though  he  saw  the  war  as  a  Capitalist 
imbroglio,  an  outrage  on  humanity,  he  got  no  sort  of  help 
from  the  vision.  He  realised  only  that  he  wasn't  in  it  —  and 
was  convinced  that  he  ought  to  be.  Not  because  he  believed 


238  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

in  it,  not  because  he  liked  fighting  (he  didn't  —  he  hated  it), 
not  even  because  of  Belgium,  but  because  he  could  not  bear  to 
stand  aside  whilst  others  ploughed  through  the  horror. 

It  was  that  horror  he  saw  this  afternoon,  even  there  at 
Helena's  side,  with  his  arm  through  hers,  the  crocuses  just 
showing  in  the  London  parks,  and  their  'bus  behaving  really 
well. 

It  was  what  he  saw,  too,  when  he  stood  in  front  of  his  easel 
and  tried  to  paint.  Painting  and  war!  Nothing  on  earth 
would  make  them  "  mix."  .  .  . 

And  (even  worse)  it  was  what  he  saw  when  he  looked  at 
Helena.  The  war  got  most  tremendously  in  the  way  of  love. 
The  fact  was  you  couldn't  escape  from  it.  Unless,  perhaps, 
you  joined  in.  ... 


They  nearly  all  had. 

First  of  all  Jimmy  had  gone. 

You  felt,  somehow,  that  Jimmy  had  rather  liked  the  war; 
that  for  him  it  had  filled  in  the  gaps  —  brought  adventure. 
You  couldn't  help  seeing,  of  course,  that  before  the  war  came, 
life  had  never  given  Jimmy  enough  to  do.  It  must  be  strange, 
now,  for  Jimmy  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do.  Because 
Jimmy  was  dead  .  .  .  and  dead  men  lie  quietly,  even  in 
France.  .  .  . 

Then  Ronnie  Sand  and  Pamela  had  come  home  from  Italy, 
and  Pamela  had  filled  many  printed  pages  with  romantic 
versions  of  their  difficulties  in  doing  it,  while  Ronnie  applied 
for  a  commission  and  went  off  to  Salisbury  to  train. 

**  Look  after  Pamela,"  a  wistful  Ronnie  had  said  to  Helena. 
"  See  that  she  takes  care  of  herself.  .  .  ." 

Small  doubt  she  would  do  that,  for  Pamela  found  the  war 
exciting.  To  her  it  meant  lunches  and  dinners  at  the  Savoy; 
the  giving  of  concerts  for  the  wounded;  the  selling  of  flags 
in  the  street  (if  the  day  were  fine) ;  and  an  occasional  theatre 
with  a  uniformed  Ronnie  when  he  came  home  on  leave  from 
Salisbury. 

Ronnie,  as  it  transpired,  was  quite  clever  about  "  leave " 
and  things  of  that  sort,  so  that  besides  Pamela's  occasional 


WASTE  SHORES  239 

theatre  there  were  evenings  in  the  old  house  in  Chelsea  when 
the  war  might  not  be  mentioned,  but  only  art  and  books. 
Which  was  all  very  well  if  Ronnie  arranged  them  for  a  Satur- 
day, with  the  whole  of  another  day  yawning  happily  between 
them  and  the  hour  of  return;  but  on  a  Sunday  no  one  was 
really  proof  against  the  abysmal  gloom  which  was  apt  to  de- 
scend upon  them  all  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

No  doubt  whatever,  of  course,  but  that  Ronnie  was  hating 
the  war.  Hilary  (with  his  painful  interest  in  the  psychology 
of  the  young  artist  turned  warrior)  wondered  much  too  fre- 
quently what  had  driven  him  into  it.  A  sense,  perhaps,  of  its 
righteousness:  idealism,  sentiment,  Belgium,  or  —  Pamela. 
Impossible  to  learn  from  Ronnie,  who  was  never  to  be  cajoled 
into  talking  about  it.  And  anyway,  he  was  in  it.  He  belonged 
to  the  army  of  the  khaki-clad,  and  he  was  one  of  those  people 
who,  if  he  had  not,  would  have  helped  perhaps  to  make  Hilary 
feel  better  about  things. 

That  was  true,  too,  of  Arthur  Yeomans.  .  .  .  Arthur  had 
been  one  of  the  first  to  join  —  and  Hilary  had  thought  he  would 
have  been  the  last.  There  was  no  accounting  for  things  of  that 
kind  .  .  .  this  war  had  you  all  ways.  Here,  at  least,  however, 
you  understood  what  had  sent  Arthur  in,  when  (in  these  days 
of  appeal  to  the  very  young)  he  might  so  easily  have  kept  out. 
But  Arthur  (entirely  without  scruple,  it  seemed,  on  this  ques- 
tion of  age)  was  "  fit,"  eager,  and  a  dead  shot.  And  he  went 
in,  he  said,  because  he  loathed  Germany  as  a  power.  Hilary 
had  said: 

"  Yes,  but  you  hate  Russia  more  —  and  Russia's  on  our 
sid»." 

They  argued  that  pretty  fiercely,  not  once  but  over  and 
over  again.  Yet  Arthur  went,  all  the  same.  Helena,  who  had 
suffered  most,  perhaps,  from  these  passionate  discussions,  got 
through  her  good-byes  with  something  approaching  equanimity, 
and  was  rather  inclined  to  think  that  Hilary  exaggerated 
when  he  said  that  something  irreplaceable  had  gone  out  of  his 
life  with  Arthur.  There  were  times  even  now,  it  seemed,  when 
Helena  could  not  be  entirely  fair  to  Arthur  Yeomans.  Yet 
Arthur  to-day  was  not  only  Hilary's  friend,  but  hers.  For 
Hilary  had  been  right.  Arthur  had  come  in  on  their  side. 
And  he  had  come  in  heavily.  .  .  . 


240  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Presently  —  with  the  falling  of  the  leaves  —  Conrad  Howe 
had  gone,  and  Brian  Vincent  had  tried  to  go  and  had  been 
refused.  Conrad  (who  found  the  war  a  more  absorbing  mis- 
tress than  he  had  once  found  Dagmar  North)  was  still  in 
training,  and  Brian  was  trying  to  live  down  the  heart  the  mili- 
tary doctors  had  given  him,  and  had  begun  to  pull  ropes. 
Helena  wondered  sometimes  how  much  Vivien  cared  —  whether 
she  cared  at  all.  You'd  have  sworn  to  see  them  together  that 
she  didn't  .  .  .  that,  without  turning  a  hair,  she  let  him  pull 
as  many  ropes  as  he  liked.  But  Vivien  was  another  of  the 
people  who  would  never  talk  about  the  war:  it  was,  she  said, 
a  **  rotten  "  topic  of  conversation,  so  that  you  never  knew 
what  she  thought  about  it  or  what  she  felt.  Even  the  fact  that, 
like  Helena,  she  did  no  "  war  work,"  didn't  help  you,  either, 
because  knowing  Vivien  you  never  expected  her  to  do  any. 
She  left  that,  she  would  have  told  you,  to  Olive,  who  did 
enough  for  a  dozen  women,  whilst  Helena  (who  was  con- 
vinced she  hated  the  war  more  than  anybody  else  ever  had  or 
ever  could  hate  anything)  thought  that  personally  she  helped 
it  not  enough  but  too  much  by  services  rendered  to  Mr.  Bletch- 
ington. 

For  Alexander  Bletchington  was  another  of  those  people 
who  were  "  enjoying  "  the  war. 

There  seemed  to  Helena  to  be  quite  a  lot  of  them.  Olive, 
of  course,  and  nearly  all  the  people  you  met  in  'buses  and 
tubes,  and  Dagmar  North,  who  had  recently  turned  up  wearing 
her  old  air  of  self-complacency  and  a  new  V.A.D.  uniform. 
Also,  there  were  several  handsome  healthy  young  women 
whom  she  occasionally  brought  with  her,  similarly  attired, 
though  you  couldn't  tell  whether,  in  their  case,  the  complacency 
was  old  or  new  like  the  uniform.  Then  there  was  Barbara 
Feilding,  who,  if  she  wasn't  "enjoying"  the  war,  was  at  least 
able  to  look  at  it  without  emotion.  Barbara  had  dropped  art 
for  mechanics,  and  Hilary  and  Helena  thought  it  a  pity.  So 
many  people  could  drive  motor-cars,  so  few  could  model  as 
well  as  Barbara.  They  didn't  agree  with  her  when  she  said 
that  art  in  war  time  was  useless.  A  thing  wasn't  useless  be- 
cause people  didn't  stop  to  look  at  it. 

But  perhaps  Barbara  had  discovered  as  Hilary  had  that  art 
and  the  war  didn't  go  together.  .  .  . 


WASTE  SHORES  241 

Certainly  Stephen  Gretton  had  discovered  it.  But  then, 
Stephen  was  that  hopeless  thing  in  a  practical  world  —  a 
young  man  with  unpopular  ideals  who  meant  to  stick  to 
them.  .  .  . 

5 

Denis  O'Connell,  too,  it  transpired,  had  ideals:  of  a  different 
sort  from  Stephen's  but  no  better  understanded  of  the  Man  in 
the  Street,  though  this  scarcely  mattered,  because  Denis  being 
forty-five  might  have  what  ideals  he  liked  —  at  least,  in  1914. 
But  as  London  wasn't  included  among  them  he  had  first  of 
all  persuaded  a  big  morning  daily  to  make  him  its  accredited 
Irish  correspondent  and  had  then  departed  to  Dublin,  where 
he  had  remained  ever  since.  Everyone  was  sorry  but  Barbara, 
who  was  horribly  tired  of  being  proposed  to. 

This  accounted  for  everyone  save  Nelly  (who  took  the  war, 
for  the  time  being,  as  a  part,  if  a  regrettable  part,  of  life  and 
helped  o'nights  at  a  canteen  in  the  wilds  of  Woolwich) :  and 
for  Desiree,  who  had  gone  back  to  France  at  the  very  beginning 
of  it  all  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  patriotism  that  had  left  everybody 
gasping,  and  from  which  nobody  had  as  yet  recovered.  She 
was  now  somewhere  in  Belgium  with  the  French  Red  Cross, 
writing  very  seldom  to  Hilary  (who,  she  thought,  ought  to 
join  up)  and  very  frequently  to  Estelle,  whom  she  constantly 
urged  to  work  for  her  certificate  and  come  out  too.  But  this 
annoyed  Estelle,  because  she  didn't  want  to  be  a  nurse  and 
she  hated  Desiree's  letters,  which  were  all  about  wounded 
soldiers  (who  were,  all  of  them,  preux  chevaliers) ;  about 
shells  (which  were  symphonic)  and  ruins  (which  were  not) ; 
and  the  Boches  (whom  Desiree  loathed) :  and  never  once 
about  the  one  thing  on  earth  Estelle  really  cared  to  hear  about. 

The  war  had  certainly  cooked  poor  Estelle's  goose  —  leaving 
her  to  turn  back  desolate  into  Streatham  as  Eurydice,  so  they 
say,  had  turned  back  into  Hades.  A  half-rescue,  perhaps,  was 
worse  than  one  at  all,  and  in  Estelle's  case  they  had  even 
"  rounded  up  "  her  German  professor,  sx>  that  she  sorrowed 
indeed  as  one  without  hope. 

Evey,  these  days,  wore  a  blue  torquoise  ring  on  the  third 
finger  of  her  left  hand  and  Phil  (who  had  put  it  there)  was  in 
France  acting  as  correspondent  to  the  Sentinel  —  a  position  he 


242  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

jeopardised  continually  by  his  inordinate  passion  for  truth, 
upon  the  merits  of  which  he  and  the  Censor  were  by  no  means 
agreed. 

Helena  had  once  said  that  Evey  "  in  love  "  would  be  charm- 
ing. She  was.  But  there  were  people  who  thought  Evey 
charming  at  all  times.  Helena  was  one  of  them  and  Phil  was 
another,  of  course. 

But  it  was  Phil  who  said  that  Evey  was  like  one  of  Stephen's 
drawings  —  you  either  liked  her  or  disliked  her.  You  couldn't 
be  indifferent. 

The  war  interested  Evey  tremendously.  That  is,  what  Phil 
had  to  say  about  it  (and  all  other  wars,  for  that  matter)  inter- 
ested her.  But  she  regarded  it  all  with  horror  rather  than  the 
toleration  her  interest  might  have  adumbrated;  for  she  felt 
that  it  was  evil,  and,  an  apt  pupil,  had  already  learnt  that  it 
was  unnecessary.  That,  Phil  insisted,  was  what  you  had  first 
to  make  people  understand  —  that  wars  simply  needn't  happen. 
But,  since  this  one  had,  he  also  insisted  that  while  it  lasted  it 
was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  mattered.  You  might 
call  it  a  dog-fight  if  you  liked:  but  it  wasn't  a  dog-fight  you 
could  ignore. 

Either  way,  it  had  crashed  into  Evey's  new-found  happiness 
(as  into  Helena's)  and  stunned  it.  Presently,  of  course,  it 
would  recover:  but  just  now  it  didn't  matter,  because  somehow 
it  didn't  seem  as  if  she  had  any  right  to  it.  That,  however, 
was  the  sort  of  thing  she  might  say  to  Helena  if  she  liked,  but 
never  under  any  circumstances  to  Phil. 

And  it  wasn't  only  the  war.  Evey  had  guessed  the  truth 
about  Helena  and  Hilary  and  it  made  her  sad,  because  Helena 
hadn't  said  a  word.  When  Evey  mentioned  the  subject  to 
Phil,  he  had  said  in  that  provoking  way  of  his,  that  he  had 
guessed  how  things  were  long  ago  —  ever  since  that  night  when 
news  of  the  Sarajevo  murder  had  come  through.  They  were 
both  so  tremendously  excited  that  evening  they  had  forgotten, 
it  seems,  to  "  keep  it  up." 

And  there  had  been  further  occasions,  so  that  other  people 
too  had  guessed. 

But  Hilary  and  Helena  did  not  care  these  days  who  had 
guessed  or  who  had  not.  On  the  whole,  however,  they  were 
glad  that  Phil  and  Evey  had. 


WASTE  SHORES  243 


The  'bus  (which  this  afternoon  had  behaved  quite  well)  ran 
up  its  usual  backwater  at  Richmond  and  left  them  to  wade 
out  into  the  main  stream  for  themselves. 

They  walked  up  the  hill  together  and  along  the  Terrace  into 
the  Park.  The  day  was  still  beautiful,  but  they  found  the 
Park  disappointing,  for  men  drilled  on  its  open  spaces  and  the 
Boy  Scouts  spread  themselves  tempestuously  abroad.  Rich- 
mond was  a  land  of  shadowed  memories,  across  which  as  they 
walked  Hilary  and  Helena  scrawled  a  mental  Ichabod,  won- 
dering why  it  should  hurt  —  like  that.  Presently,  in  their 
clever  way,  they  dodged  the  men  drilling  and  the  Boy  Scouts 
doing  numerous  other  things,  and  kissed  each  other  sadly 
under  the  winter  trees  before  they  turned  their  backs  on  the 
Park  and  went  down  the  hill  for  tea. 

Tea  was  better.  Somehow  tea  always  is.  Tea  is  an  in- 
curably cheerful  meal ;  and  the  Richmond  tea-shops  were  bright 
and  coloured.  They  sat  in  a  corner  and  ate  toasted  buns  and 
cakes  with  cream  in  them  (you  could  get  them  in  February, 
1915)  while  Hilary  refreshed  his  eyesight  by  looking  at 
Helena's  uncovered  head  against  the  bright-coloured  cushions. 
He  had  had  her  and  loved  her  for  seven  months  now  .  .  .  love 
that  had  been  sweet,  was  sweet  still  and  might,  even,  be  sweeter. 
No  sign  all  this  time  from  Jerome  .  .  .  the  man  dispossessed. 
Seven  months  was  a  long  time  .  .  .  one  could  forget  a  lot  in 
seven  months,  but  then  one  could  remember  a  lot,  too.  Which 
had  Jerome  done?  Which,  for  that  matter,  had  Hilary  done? 

But  he  ceased  presently  to  wonder  about  that,  because 
looking  at  Helena's  head  bent  now  over  the  tea-cups  he  thought 
he  saw  what  had  gone  wrong  with  his  work  earlier  that  after- 
noon. If  the  light  wasn't  too  atrocious  when  he  got  back  he 
could  put  it  right  before  anybody  came.  Not,  these  days,  that 
there  were  many  left  to  come,  except  Dagmar  North,  who  no 
longer  mattered,  Denis's  pretty  ladies,  who  never  had,  and 
Barbara  who  was  ceasing  to  matter  —  much.  Nelly  was  all 
right,  of  course.  At  least  she  would  be  if  she  could  only 
manage  to  forget  the  word  "  canteen." 

Outside  the  cosy  tea-room,  however,  it  was  raining  hard, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  discretion  drove  them  inside  the 


244  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

'bus.  Five  minutes  later  the  conversation  drove  them  out 
again,  as  the  conversation  inside  'buses  was  apt  to  do. 

They  got  rather  wet  and  cold  up  there;  but  they  didn't 
mind  that,  because  up  there  in  the  cold  and  the  darkness  it  was 
easier,  somehow,  to  forget  the  war ;  easier,  anyway,  than  among 
that  fur-clad  cluster  of  femininity  inside.  .  .  .  They  sat  close, 
talking  of  other  things,  keeping  the  one  thing  at  bay.  It  was 
an  old  game  of  theirs;  only  sometimes,  these  days,  they  were 
apt  to  forget  the  trick  of  it. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  they  reached  home,  and  there  was 
a  letter  for  Helena.  She  sat  absorbed  in  it  while  Hilary  tried 
in  the  artificial  light  to  get  right  what  he  had  that  morning  got 
wrong. 


The  letter  was  from  Cissie  Ellingham.  Cissie  was  the  only 
person  who  wrote  now  from  Rattenby,  since  Walter  had  left 
his  bank  and  gone  into  training.  Helena's  father  and  mother 
had  washed  their  hands  of  her.  Jerome  kept  silence  deep  as 
the  grave.  So  did  Angela.  Wimbledon  and  Putney  had 
remonstrated,  pleaded,  bullied,  and  now,  presumably,  sulked. 
Helena  had  almost  forgotten  these  things.  ...  In  time  Wim- 
bledon might  probably  recover;  Putney,  less  probably  —  her 
father  and  mother  perhaps  never.  (A  strangely  painful 
thought  that  last,  she  found.)  Ted  had  written  once,  and  not 
very  usefully,  to  the  effect  that  she  was  making  a  fool  of  her- 
self and  would  regret  it. 

That,  too,  she  had  almost  forgotten. 

But  Walter  had  not  only  written,  and  written  differently, 
Walter  had  run  up  to  town  to  see  her.  He  had  been  grave, 
very  grown-up  and  concerned.  But  he  had  stayed  to  tea  and 
supper  .  .  .  had  stroked  Mark  Antony,  smoked  Hilary's  ciga- 
rettes and  admired  his  pictures.  And  when  presently,  getting 
him  for  a  moment  to  herself,  Helena  had  said,  "  You  see, 
Wally,  don't  you,  that  it's  just  no  use  what  any  of  them  say?  " 
Walter  had  said  that  he  did  see  very  well  and  that  it  was  — 
amongst  other  things  —  a  deuce  of  a  shame. 

Walter,  at  least,  was  on  her  side,  and  Cissie  because  of 
him. 


WASTE  SHORES  245 

That  had  all  happened  a  month  before  the  war,  and  now 
Cissie  wrote  to  say  that  Walter  was  going  to  France  almost 
immediately  and  that  Jerome  was  already  there.  He  had  gone 
out  six  weeks  ago  with  the  grey  car  for  the  British  Red  Cross, 
and  it  had  taken  him,  Cissie  said,  over  three  months  to  get 
there.  He  had  even  tried  to  get  in  the  line  and  had  failed, 
for  with  that  knee  of  his  no  one  would  take  him  as  a  fighting 
man.  Cissie  was  loquacious  about  Jerome  in  whom  she  was 
not  personally  concerned,  and  briefly  matter-of-fact  about 
Walter  who  was  all  the  world  to  her.  You  could  see  it  was  a 
thought  she  dared  not  face  as  yet  —  that  terrible  horrible 
thought  of  Walter  out  there  in  the  mud  and  blood.  .  .  . 

Helena,  however,  managed  to  look  fairly  calmly  at  the  men- 
tal picture  of  Jerome  who  was  there  with  his  car.  It  reminded 
her,  she  found,  of  Jimmy,  who  had  "enjoyed"  the  war.  Je- 
rome too,  she  reflected,  would  take  the  war  rather  like  that. 
But  Jimmy,  though  he  had  "enjoyed  "  the  war,  had  died  of  it 
too.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  it  flashed  on  her.  Was  that  going  to  be  the  way 
out?  It  was  horrible,  ghastly,  not  to  be  thought  about.  Yet 
she  found  that  she  could  think  of  nothing  else.  Her  mind 
seemed  closed  to  all  else  but  that  one  line  of  hideous  conjecture, 
and  long  after  she  had  folded  up  the  letter  and  put  it  back  in 
its  envelope  she  sat  there  staring  at  Cissie's  schoolgirlish  hand- 
writing without  seeing  it  at  all.  She  saw  nothing  whatever 
but  the  ugly  evil  things  that  came  up  and  stared  at  her  as 
they  had  stared  before.  Only  this  time  she  made  no  attempt  to 
stamp  them  out.  They  were  horrible,  but  she  found  that  this 
time  she  could  bear  to  look  upon  them. 

Hilary's  voice  recalled  her  —  an  amazing  incredible  sanity, 
like  a  breath  of  summer  air  through  a  lazarhouse. 

"  Feeling  all  right?     Not  too  tired?  " 

A  little  quiver  —  that  he  was  too  busy  to  see  —  swept  over 
her  face. 

"  Not  tired,"  she  said,  "  but  murderous." 

Hilary  misunderstood,  as  she  hoped  he  would.  Because  she 
wanted  suddenly  to  get  away. 

"  I'm  a  tyrant,  I  know,"  Hilary  said,  unhooking  his  palette 
from  his  thumb  and  putting  it  down.  "  But  come  ana  look. 
Haven't  I  made  it  better?  " 


246  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

She  agreed  that  he  had  done  that.  Even  she  could  see,  she 
told  him,  how  very  much  better  it  was. 

"  It's  coming,  isn't  it?  " 

"Finely!" 

She  reached  up  and  kissed  him. 

"  Cleversticks !  "  she  said. 

The  ridiculous  word  masked  the  heights  and  depths  of  her 
pride  in  him.  And  that,  as  of  old,  both  thrilled  and  delighted 
him.  His  arms  came  round  her,  making  her  prisoner. 

"  Still  want  to  murder  me?  " 

She  didn't  say  —  how  could  she?  —  that  it  wasn't  on  his 
account  she  had  felt  murderous.  Instead  she  laughed,  twisted 
herself  artfully  from  his  embrace  and  went  off  to  change  her 
frock.  At  the  door  she  looked  back. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  she  said.  "  A  Rattenby  letter,  with  news. 
Catch!" 

Hilary  caught. 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Helena  Sargent,"  Cissie's 
compromise  —  or  Walter's.  And  in  any  case  dictated  by  a  del- 
icacy of  feeling  that  did  them  infinite  credit. 

Helena,  however,  had  her  own  reasons  for  not  wanting  to  be 
there  when  Hilary  read  what  Cissie  had  written. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


"I  1EBRUARY  slipped  past  and  the  whole  of  March,  and 
M  April  came  hopelessly,  though  with  Easter,  and  went  out 
A  in  the  roar  of  the  guns  hammering  for  the  second  time 
at  Ypres.  The  Allied  forces  had  landed  in  Gallipoli,  with 
Arthur  Yeomans  helping  them,  and  May  had  begun  infamously 
with  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania. 

It  was  soon  after  that  (on  the  Saturday  of  the  Whitsun  week- 
end) when  Stephen  Gretton  looked  in  unexpectedly  after  an 
absence  of  a  week  or  two.  Not  that  the  outrage  on  the  high 
seas  was  in  any  way  connected  with  his  appearance,  but  only 
that,  for  Helena,  it  helped,  somehow,  to  date  the  evening  which 
(as  it  turned  out)  she  had  good  cause  lo  remember.  As  for 
Stephen,  he  came,  quite  frankly,  to  exercise  the  memory  of  a 
painful  afternoon.  Painful  afternoons  were  frequent  occur- 
rences at  this  time  for  Stephen :  he  suffered  them  sadly,  without 
getting  inured  or  hardened  (for  that  is  a  trick  a  certain  set 
of  ideals  will  play  you.  They  prevent  you  from  growing  a 
pachyderm,  without  which  life  in  war  time  becomes  little  better 
than  a  series  of  dagger-thrusts).  Certainly,  for  Stephen,  the 
dagger-thrusts  were  frequent  and  deep,  so  that  life  was  not  easy 
nor  conducive  to  the  development  of  the  social  virtues. 

Besides,  there  was  Stella.  She,  in  herself,  afforded  an  excel- 
lent reason  why  Stephen  just  now  should  see  less  of  his  friends, 
why  even  he  should  desire  to  see  less  of  them,  and  why  the  dag- 
ger-thrusts should  go  more  deeply.  For  Stella  was  another  of 
those  rare  people  who  were  doing  no  "  war  work,"  saving  her 
energies  for  the  task  of  having  a  baby.  Stella,  no  more  than 
Stephen,  was  having  a  good  time,  these  days.  Plunged  into  a 
strange  ugly  world  of  turmoil  and  strife,  surrounded  by  a  hus- 
band's "  ideals  "  and  a  family's  patriotic  objection  to  them,  she 
was  far  from  feeling  that  she  had  chosen  her  moment  with  dis- 

247 


248  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

cretion.  And  when  it  wasn't  ideals  and  patriotism  it  was 
money,  or,  more  correctly,  the  lack  of  it.  For  Stephen  had  no 
money  at  all  save  what  he  earned,  and  that,  in  May,  1915,  was 
extremely  little.  Stella,  whose  attitude  to  money  until  her 
marriage  had  always  suggested  that  she  thought  it  grew  happily 
on  trees,  could  not  understand  why  the  war  should  affect  their 
income  so  disastrously,  and  she  only  looked  worried  when 
Stephen  informed  her  that  in  war  time  artists  were  a  negligible 
quantity.  The  chief  fact  for  Stella,  of  course,  was  that  there 
was  very  little  money  just  when  she  wanted  a  good  deal  more 
than  usual.  You  could  not  blame  her  just  now  for  getting  no 
further  than  that. 

Though  she  might  have  done,  perhaps,  if  she  had  been 
present  at  this  particular  afternoon  for  which  Stephen  now 
sought  oblivion,  and  which  (save  for  its  new  air  of  finality)  was 
typical  enough  of  many  others  that  had  preceded  it.  It  was 
connected  with  a  commission  Stephen  had  recently  executed 
for  John  Reece  at  the  Sign  of  the  Lighted  Lantern,  and  which 
that  gentleman  had  rejected  contumeliously.  Reece  was  a  pub- 
lisher for  whom  in  happier  days  Stephen  had  done  a  good  deal 
of  illustration  work,  from  which  (even  when  it  didn't  altogether 
satisfy  Reece,  and  few  things  did)  other  commissions  were  apt 
to  spring.  A  week  or  so  ago  Stephen  had  been  asked  to  submit 
a  cover  for  a  new  book  of  war  poetry,  to  be  issued  immediately 
from  the  house  of  the  Lighted  Lantern,  and  for  reasons  doubt- 
less clear  enough  to  himself  Stephen  had  in  due  course  pre- 
sented Reece  with  a  line  drawing  of  a  hideous  figure  with  an 
axe,  and  made  matters  worse  by  calling  it  "  war."  The  thing 
had  a  diabolical  imaginative  cleverness  and  contained  good 
work  —  but  none  of  these  things  were  of  any  use  to  Reece,  who 
wanted  Britannia  and  a  flag  and  said  so  in  language  that  (not- 
withstanding Mrs.  Recce's  drawing-room)  was  unmistakable. 

It  was  to  deliver  Britannia  and  a  flag  that  Stephen  had  gone 
this  afternoon  to  Recce's  house.  But  nothing  —  not  even 
Recce's  cheque  resting  comfortably  in  his  pocket  —  could 
efface  for  Stephen  the  memory  of  that  bitter  afternoon.  It 
wasn't  only  Reece  and  his  impossible  views  on  art  for  illustra- 
tion purposes.  The  well-dressed  women  who  drank  tea  in  the 
Recces'  drawing-room  (and  who  ten  months  ago  had  been 
pleased  enough  to  talk  to  the  nice  boy  who  did,  so  Reece  said, 


WASTE  SHORES  249 

such  clever  work)  were  mixed  up  in  it,  too.  Because  this  is 
a  queer  world  and  these  fashionably  stupid  women  belonged 
("belonged"  is  really  the  word)  to  men  who  "did"  things. 
The  occasional  commissions  which  had  reached  Stephen  via 
their  interest  in  him  were  already,  he  knew,  things  of  the  past. 
And  remembering  Stella  and  circumstances  and  that  one  has 
to  "  live,"  Stephen  cursed  himself  for  an  idiot.  It  wasn't  only 
the  line-drawing  nor  what  Reece  had  said  about  it  (though  he 
had  said  a  good  deal)  but  that  Stephen  had  allowed  that  bogey 
of  his  tremendously  unpopular  ideals  to  come  up  too  frequently 
and  look  too  long  over  the  hedge  of  his  obstinately  civilian 
attire.  Stephen  could  bear  to  look  at  the  truth:  he  knew  he 
ought  to  have  held  his  tongue.  But  that,  at  this  stage,  was 
precisely  what  he  could  not  do.  For  to  the  other  disabilities 
under  which,  at  this  moment,  he  was  labouring,  Stephen  Gretton 
added  the  further  —  and  greatest  —  disability  of  being  Stephen 
Gretton. 

He  sat  now  at  Helena's  side,  talking  to  her  of  noncontro- 
versial  everyday  things,  and  of  Stella;  profoundly  grateful  for 
the  quiet  and  calm  of  Helena's  presence  and  for  the  blue  shield 
of  Hilary's  curtains,  cutting  off  the  vexed  wo/rid  at  the 
threshold. 

Over  there  at  the  window  Hilary  stood  with  the  line-drawing 
of  "  War  "  in  his  hand.  Stephen  had  brought  it  not  only  for 
criticism  but  for  acceptance,  because  Hilary,  so  he  said,  was 
the  only  person  he  knew  who  would  take  it  off  his  hands,  and 
he,  personally,  never  wanted  to  see  it  again. 

Hilary's  voice  came  to  them  presently,  amused,  incredulous, 
from  the  window. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  Gretton,  you  offered  this  thing  to 
Reece?  " 

"Why  not?     It  was  for  a  volume  of  war  poetry.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  my  dear  Gretton,  nobody  wants  to  think  of  war  as  an 
obscenity." 

"  People  aren't  thinking  at  all  —  they're  only  feeling." 

"  Of  course.  .  .  .  Britannia  and  flags  don't  satisfy  your 
brain,  or  if  they  do  it's  a  queer  sort  of  brain.  What  was  the 
book?  " 

Stephen  named  it  and  its  author. 

"  Well  .  .  .  he's  done  good  work," 


250  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Stephen  was  understood  to  say  that  in  this  case  the  work  he 
had  done  deserved  the  cover  it  had  achieved. 

"  Meaning,"  said  Hilary,  "  Britannia  and  the  flag." 

Gretton  nodded. 

The  blue  curtain  parted  to  admit  Vivien  and  Brian  Vincent. 

"  How  do,  Gretton  ?  "  said  Vincent,  not  too  cordially,  per- 
haps. "  Haven't  seen  you  lately." 

"  No,"  Stephen  said,  welcoming  this  successful  assault  upon 
the  blue  shield  with  no  very  great  elation.  For  between  him- 
self and  Brian  there  was  of  late  a  great  gulf  fixed  —  all  the  dif- 
ference in  fact  between  the  man  who  believes  you  can  discover 
the  causes  of  war  in  Government  "  Blue  "  books  and  the  man 
who  does  not.  It  existed,  in  measure,  of  course  between  Brian 
and  Hilary,  too:  but  Brian  knew  his  Hilary  —  or  believed  he 
did.  Hilary  might  talk;  it  was  not  so  certain  how  he  would  act, 
for  he  was  that  essentially  unhappy  creature  —  the  man  who 
can  see  all  sides  of  a  subject.  And  at  least  Brian  could  under- 
stand Hilary's  point  of  view  where  Stephen's  was  a  sort  of  sec- 
ular Athanasian  creed  which  nobody  understands  or  expects  to 
understand. 

Scenting  trouble,  Hilary  came  away  from  the  window  and 
put  Stephen's  drawing  on  his  mantelshelf.  He  propped  it  up 
carefully  behind  Barbara's  "  Diana  "  and  looked  at  it  through 
half -shut  eyes. 

"  Any  news,  Vincent?  "  he  asked.  These  were  the  days  when 
everyone  was  expecting  Italy  to  come  in.  "Got  a  paper?  " 

Brian  had,  and  fished  it  out. 


Helena  and  Vivien,  watching  them  poring  over  it  together, 
and  agreed  as  to  the  undesirability  of  war  as  a  topic  of  conver- 
sation, greeted  the  entry  of  Barbara  and  Nelly  with  a  relief 
that  emphasised  their  failure  to  start  another  in  successful 
opposition.  With  Barbara  and  Nelly  to-night  was  a  girl  in 
khaki,  whose  name  nobody  caught,  but  whom  Barbara  (who 
had  brought  her)  called  Rosamund.  Rosamund  had  a  large, 
white  face,  round  eyes  and  a  limp  handshake,  and  apparently 
Barbara  had  brought  her  for  ornamental  purposes  (there  is  no 
accounting  for  taste  even  in  so  good  an  artist  as  Barbara),  for 


WASTE  SHORES  251 

after  wishing  everybody  good  evening  she  said  nothing  at  all  — 
seemingly  overwhelmed  by  the  sight  of  three  able-bodied  young 
men  in  mufti. 

Nelly  was  taking  a  night  off.  You  gathered,  somehow,  from 
her  statement  of  this  fact  that  it  wasn't  "  all  beer  and  skittles  " 
at  her  canteen.  Barbara,  sick  for  once  of  mechanics  and  the 
nasty  ways  of  motors,  drew  Hilary  away  from  Brian  and  his 
paper  to  talk  of  art  and  Stephen's  black  and  white  drawing  of 
"  War,"  which  she  probably  thought  clever  but  misguided,  like 
Stephen  himself.  The  others  made  small  talk  round  the  fire  — 
not  very  successfully,  because  the  girl  Barbara  called  Rosa- 
mund was  so  obviously  still  working  out  the  problem  of  the 
three  apparently  fit  young  men.  Every  now  and  then  painful 
intervals  occurred,  when  Helena  and  Vivien  plunged  to  say  the 
first  thing  that  came  into  their  heads,  hoping  to  keep  everybody 
off  Italy  and  the  Lusitania,  of  which  Helena  (after  the  Britisher 
post,  immensely  augmented  of  late)  was  inclined  to  think  she 
had  had  enough  for  one  day.  Once  they  tried  plays,  but  not 
too  happily,  because  Rosamund  could  not  understand  how  any- 
body nowadays  found  time  (or  the  inclination)  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  and,  in  any  case,  would  not  have  gone  to  the  plays  the 
others  cared  about.  And  when  the  plays  gave  out,  it  was 
books.  They  grumbled,  all  of  them,  at  the  mass  of  literature 
the  war  had  produced.  The  guns,  so  they  said,  had  rendered 
everybody  incoherent;  nobody  seemed  able  to  think.  But  here 
the  girl  called  Rosamund,  who  did  not  care  for  reading,  and 
was  personally  much  bored  by  the  conversation,  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  elbow  the  books  out  of  it.  She  told  Stephen  that 
she  thought  everyone  nowadays  was  thinking  a  great  deal.  She 
had  noticed,  she  said,  that  the  war  was  making  people  much 
more  thoughtful.  Not  the  people,  they  told  her,  who  wrote 
things.  They  were  just  rushing  into  print  and  working  off 
steam.  It  was  very  trying  for  the  few  people  who  did  really 
happen  to  care  for  literature.  Apparently  Rosamund  didn't. 
Certainly  nobody  was  prepared  to  say  that  the  book^  she  men- 
tioned came  under  that  heading,  not  even  Brian,  who  was  not 
"  booky  "  and  was  secretly  dismayed  at  the  turn  the  conversa- 
tion had  taken. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  like  a  book  that  brings  in  the  war,"  the 
girl  called  Rosamund  observed. 


252  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Don't  you  find  it  gets  a  little  tiring  after  a  time?  "  Nelly 
inquired.  "You  see,  nearly  every  novelist  is  doing  it  because 
it's  so  tremendously  difficult  to  explain  why  your  hero,  if  not 
actually  senile,  isn't  in  one  of  the  Services,  and  there  are  only 
a  very  limited  number  of  legitimate  reasons  why  he  shouldn't 
be." 

"  You  couldn't  be  interested  in  a  shirker,  of  course,"  agreed 
Rosamund. 

Stephen  smiled. 

"  Not  as  a  hero,  perhaps." 

"  I  hate  books  with  heroes,"  averred  Vivien,  "  and  I  hate 
books  about  the  war." 

"  Don't  find  much  to  read  these  days,  do  you?  "  Nelly  asked. 

Vivien  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head  and  said  no,  not 
much;  but  anything  was  better  than  reading  books  that  made 
the  war  romantic. 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  is?  "  Rosamund  asked. 

"Romantic?     War?     This  war?  " 

Rqsamund  said  "  yes,"  rather  in  the  tone  of  one  who  would 
remind  you  that  this  was  the  only  war  she  was  old  enough  to 
know  anything  about. 

"  Fancy  anybody  calling  this  war  romantic,"  Vivien  ex- 
claimed. '"  Why  it  isn't  even  exciting,  much  less  '  romantic.' 
It's  just  a  dull  slaughter.  Everything  really  interesting  in  life 
died  within  a  month  of  it." 

Rosamund,  however,  declared  that  nothing  had  been  really 
interesting  for  her  until  the  coming  of  the  war,  for  Rosamund 
had  lived  in  the  suburbs  with  old-fashioned  parents,  and  had 
had  no  independent  life  of  her  own  at  all.  The  war,  it  seemed, 
had  positively  emancipated  her.  .  .  . 

They  weren't  sure  what  Rosamund  meant  by  "  emancipa- 
tion "  and  they  appeared,  all  of  them,  not  to  think  very  much, 
anyway,  of  the  girl  who  waits  for  a  war  to  "  emancipate  "  her. 
But  they  were  polite  people,  on  the  whole,  and  kept  this  unflat- 
tering opinion  to  themselves.  For  a  little  while  the  conversa- 
tion (as  it  so  often  did,  these  days)  hung  fire. 

Things  would  have  been  easier,  Helena  knew,  if  Stephen  had 
not  been  present.  She  had  the  feeling  this  evening  that  at  any 
moment  one  of  their  heated  "  war  "  arguments  might  begin, 
and  knew  how  difficult  it  was  to  remember  that  she  must  not 
take  sides.  Brian,  she  thought,  tended  to  make  an  argument 


WASTE  SHORES  253 

personal :  he  disapproved  .not  so  much  of  your  thesis  as  of  you 
for  owning  anything  so  disreputable,  and  Hilary,  so  fond  in 
different  ways  of  all  these  people,  would  never  allow  them  to 
quarrel. 

"  Between  us,"  he  had  said  to  her  once,  "  we've  got  to  save  a 
few  friends  for  Stephen.  He's  making  enemies  of  them  all  — 
fast." 

That  was  long  ago,  in  the  very  early  days  of  the  war,  when 
people  were  studying  and  talking  of  Blue  and  White  and  Red 
Books,  and  new  friendships  were  being  made  and  old  ones 
broken:  but  it  was  still  up  to  her,  so  she  thought,  to  keep  the 
peace,  and  she  was  worried  this  evening  because  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  storm  —  and  a  particularly  heavy  one  —  might  break 
at  any  moment.  Perhaps  Stephen  thought  so  too.  At  any  rate, 
he  began  suddenly  talking  to  Vivien  of  ordinary  everyday 
things:  of  the  latest  art  exhibition,  the  newest  ragtimes,  and  of 
Stella  who,  as  Helena  knew,  was  going  shortly  to  stay  with  her 
family  at  Brighton  because  they  were  rich  and  Stephen  was 
poor  —  and  this  business  of  getting  born  was  an  expensive 
one.  .  .  . 

Remembering  these  things  Helena  had  a  moment  of  fierce 
loathing  of  a  world  upon  which  Happiness  had  turned  its  back, 
in  which  Force  ruled. 


The  entry  of  Pamela  Sand,  with  a  young  man  in  a  lieutenant's 
uniform,  hurled  that  moment  of  passionate  thought  into  space, 
for  passion  and  Pamela  could  not  live  in  the  same  room.  You 
saw  at  once  that  she  was  the  same  Pamela  as  of  old  —  that  the 
war  had  made  no  difference  to  her  at  all,  except  that  it  had 
given  her  a  reason  for  being  more  prettily  dressed  than  before. 
It  was  a  patriotic  duty,  nowadays,  she  was  fond  of  saying,  for 
every  woman  to  look  her  best.  More  than  ever  now,  men 
wanted  pretty  women  and  pretty  things  about  them.  That  was 
the  sort  of  thing  she  said  in  the  Woman's  Looking-Glass  week 
after  week  and  week  after  week.  It  is  surprising  in  how  many 
different  ways  you  can  say  the  same  thing  if  you  really  try. 

Pamela  this  afternoon  was  doing  her  best  for  an  unhappy 
world  in  a  new  spring  costume  and  a  little  hat  of  grey  that 


254  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

showed  the  pale  loveliness  of  her  hair  and  was  adorned  with  a 
wreath  of  flowers  in  exquisitely  blended  colours.  She  shook 
hands,  kissed  Nelly  and  Helena  and  introduced  her  friend  as 
Lieutenant  Millington.  He  was  a  nice-looking  boy  with  a 
charming  smile,  a  modest  manner  and  (as  Pamela  announced) 
a  turn  for  poetry  and  water-colours.  So  they  let  him  wander 
about  Hilary's  blue  room  and  hoped  (some  of  them)  that  he 
could  not  hear  Pamela  gushing  about  him  in  her  clear  sweet 
voice,  as  she  would  have  gushed  about  the  Archangel  Gabriel 
if  he  had  happened  to  be  on  her  visiting  list. 

"  The  dearest  person,  really.  Just  down  from  some  northern 
university.  Leeds,  Manchester  .  .  .  somewhere  up  there.  He 
came  down,  Harvey  tells  me  (Harvey  of  the  Monitor,  you 
know)  on  purpose  to  join  up.  Don't  you  think  he's  charming 
to  look  at?  " 

They  all  did,  but  only  Rosamund  ventured  to  say  so.  They 
were  horribly  afraid  he  would  hear.  Rosamund  didn't  seem  to 
think  it  would  matter  if  he  did. 

"  It's  his  eyes  I  like,"  she  said.     "  So  fearless,  aren't  they?  " 

Her  own  flashed  admiration  in  the  direction  of  the  khaki- 
clad  figure  talking  so  quietly  to  Hilary  and  Barbara  over  there 
in  the  corner  by  Conrad's  bronze  relief.  Pamela  went  on. 

"  Yes,  aren't  they?  And  he  knows  just  nobody  at  all  in 
London.  Harvey  sent  him  along  to  me  and  asked  me  to  look 
after  him.  Harvey,  of  course,  thinks  he's  a  genius.  He  writes 
poems,  you  know.  Things  about  the  country  and  all  that  — 
hunting  and  walking  and  games.  You've  seen  them  probably, 
Lena,  in  the  Monitor." 

"  Lena  "  had.  They  were  signed,  all  of  them,  just  E.  T.  M., 
and  that  stood,  it  seemed,  for  Edmund  Talbot  Millington,  who 
was,  no  doubt  about  it,  a  very  considerable  poet. 

"  I  thought  them  most  unusually  good,"  Helena  said, 
amongst  whose  accomplishments  the  art  of  gush  did  not  seem 
to  be  included. 

"  That's  what  Harvey  says.  He  declares  he's  got  a  big  fu- 
ture. That's  why  it's  so  fine  —  his  giving  it  up,  I  mean.  Just 
to  go  out  and  fight.  Of  course  I  told  Harvey  I'd  give  him  a 
good  time.  You  can't  do  too  much  for  these  dear  boys,  can 
you?  " 


WASTE  SHORES  255 

"You  can't  indeed,"  agreed  the  girl  Barbara  had  called 
Rosamund.  "  Is  he  going  to  France?  " 

Helena,  thinking  of  the  poems  ("about  the  country  and  all 
that  ")  hoped  not. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Pamela  said.  "  Of  course  he's  most  fright- 
fully keen  to  get  there." 

Helena  and  Vivien  exchanged  glances,  as  though  the  thought 
had  occurred  to  both  of  them  that  no  one  with  eyes  like  that 
was  ever  "  frightfully  keen  "  on  such  a  horror  as  France  was  at 
the  moment.  Helena  guessed  that  Lieutenant  Millington,  like 
many  others,  was  only  "  frightfully  keen  "  to  get  it  over  and 
done  with.  They  were  victims,  these  nice  boys,  every  one  of 
them.  That  always  was  how  she  thought  of  them.  She  saw 
them,  in  fact,  so  much  as  victims  that  she  failed  almost  entirely 
to  see  them  as  the  heroes  they  were.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  little  pause  that  ensued  she  heard  Brian  inquiring 
for  news  of  Ronnie. 

"  Still  at  Salisbury?  "  he  wanted  to  know. 

Pamela  said  yes,  but  added  that  it  might  be  "  anywhere  at 
any  moment." 

"  France?  " 

"Via  Chelsea,  I  hope,"  said  Nelly. 

Pamela  laughed. 

"Well,  France,  anyway,  I  expect,"  she  said.  She  sounded 
important  and  thrilled,  and  rather  as  though  a  husband  in 
France  was  worth  two  on  Salisbury  Plain. 

"  Lucky  devil,"  muttered  Brian. 

The  girl  called  Rosamund  had  a  sudden  spasm  of  interest. 

'Then  you  do  want  to  go?  "  she  asked  Brian. 

'  Won't  have  me." 

'Oh,  hard  luck!" 

'Rotten!" 

'  Won't  they  have  you  either?  " 

The  spasm  of  interest  flickered  for  an  instant  in  Stephen's 
direction. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Stephen  said,  "  that  it  will  pain  you  very 
much  to  hear  I  haven't  inquired." 

"  Oh,  you're  never  one  of  those  funny  people,  are  you,  Mr. 
.  .  .  Gretton,  isn't  it?  " 


256  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Stephen  bowed  to  show  that  she  had  his  name  correctly,  and 
he  smiled  because  "  funny  "  was  one  of  the  few  epithets  that 
had  not,  so  far,  been  applied  to  him.  "  Funny?  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  queer,  then.  People  who  think  we  oughtn't  to  fight. 
You  don't  look  like  one,  you  know." 

What  she  meant  was  that  he  didn't  wear  his  hair  unusually 
and  did  nothing  eccentric  with  his  collar  and  tie.  It  was 
scarcely  her  fault,  perhaps,  that  she  thought  all  these  "  queer  " 
people  did.  Moreover,  she  really  wanted  to  think  well  of  him 
because  she  considered  him  so  good-looking. 

It  was  Jimmy  (not  ordinarily  distinguished  as  a  psycholo- 
gist) who  had  said  one  day,  "  It's  no  good  talking  about  it,  it 
seems  to  me.  There  just  are  two  sets  of  men  in  the  world: 
those  who  can  fight  and  those  who  can't.  Anybody'd  spot  Gret- 
ton  as  a  pacifist  before  he'd  opened  his  mouth."  But  Rosa- 
mund would  have  looked  at  him  a  very  long  time  before  she 
would  have  seen  anything  of  the  sort  (the  mufti  notwithstand- 
ing). She  did  really  want  to  think  the  best  of  him  and  his 
words  were  disconcerting.  Jimmy's  "  two  classes  of  men " 
were  unknown  to  her.  All  men  fought,  of  course,  when  neces- 
sary, or  declared  themselves  cowards  and  "  shirkers."  She 
considered  Stephen  too  handsome  to  be  classed  (at  any  rate  has- 
tily) with  these  "  outsiders "  whom  she  could  not  possibly 
know.  And  while  she  hesitated  Helena  plunged  suddenly  to 
the  rescue. 

"  Mr.  Gretton,"  she  said,  "  is  a  Quaker.  Quakers  may  not 
fight.  They  don't  believe,  you  see,  in  the  argument  of  physical 
force." 

"  But  what  else  can  you  believe  in  with  awful  people  like  the 
Germans?  "  Rosamund  inquired.  "  Think  of  poor  little  Bel- 
gium and  the  Lusitania." 

"  Isn't  this  story  about  the  Lusitania  absurd?  "  Pamela  here 
put  in. 

"What  story?  "  Nelly  asked,  "about  its  carrying  arms?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  heard  it  twice  to-day.  It's  such  a  silly  thing  to 
say,  even  for  pacifists.  Of  course  it  isn't  true,  but  if  it  were  it 
wouldn't  have  made  any  difference." 

"  Of  course  not.     Those  beasts  would  have  sunk  it,  anyway." 

"  I  fancy,"   said   Stephen,   "  that  wasn't   quite  what   Mrs. 


WASTE  SHORES  257 

Sand  meant."  (Pamela  nowadays  was  always  "  Mrs.  Sand  " 
to  Stephen.) 

"  No,"  Pamela  said.  "  I  meant  that  the  munitions  wouldn't 
have  made  the  sinking  of  the  boat  any  better.  Morally,  I  mean. 
Nothing  justifies  murder." 

"  Except  —  sometimes  —  circumstances." 

"  Circumstances?  " 

Pamela  raised  her  finely  pencilled  eyebrows  at  Stephen. 
She  really  couldn't  imagine  what  he  meant. 

"  The  Western  Front  .  .  .  and  the  Gallipoli  Peninsula." 

"  But  that's  war,  not  murder.     Don't  be  silly,  Stephen." 

"  When  does  murder  cease  to  be  murder?  " 

"  Is  that  a  riddle?  " 

"  One,"  said  Stephen,  "  that  has  agitated  better  brains  than 
mine." 

"  Well,  I  don't  propose  to  let  it  agitate  mine.  Is  there,  by 
any  chance,  an  answer?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  care  to  hear  it." 

"  I'm  quite  sure  I  shouldn't." 

"  Shut  up,  you  two !  "     From  Vivien. 

"  It's  Stephen's  fault.     He  will  say  such  idiotic  things." 

"  Everybody  says  idiotic  things  in  war  time,"  said  Nelly. 
"  The  most  idiotic,  of  course,  are  said  by  men  over  military 
age  and  by  women." 

"  And  the  Press,"  said  Helena,  never  able  for  long  to  forget 
Mr.  Bletchington  and  the  Britisher. 

"  I  wonder,"  Stephen  said,  "  if  there  are  really  any  people 
who  talk  like  the  papers,  and  if  so  where  are  they  to  be 
found?  " 

"  In  the  'buses  that  go  to  Richmond,"  Helena  said. 

"Oh,  really?  I  live  at  Richmond,"  Rosamund  announced, 
and  Helena  said,  "  Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  rather  quickly.  But  she 
needn't  have  done,  for  Rosamund  was  far  from  regarding  Hel- 
ena's statement  as  a  libel  upon  her  townsmen  and  women.  She 
quite  approved  of  the  things  one  read  in  newspapers,  having  all 
the  exaggerated  respect  of  the  ill-educated  for  the  printed  word. 
All  the  same,  she  did  not  care  for  reading,  and  preferred  pho- 
tographs to  letterpress.  She  was  essentially  one  of  the  women 
Lord  Northcliffe  had  in  mind  when  he  evolved  the  first  "  pic- 
ture daily." 


258  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  I  believe  Lena's  a  pacifist,  anyway,"  Pamela  remarked. 

"Am  I?"  Helena  asked.  She  really  didn't  know.  Were 
you  a  pacifist  if  you  hated  war?  The  word  was  rather  ridicu- 
lous, she  thought:  she  did  not  like  it.  It  had  a  negative  pas- 
sionless sound,  and  it  suggested  inaction.  And  that  was  not  at 
all  how  she  felt. 

"  But  we're  all  pacifists,  aren't  we?  " 

It  was  Barbara  who  spoke,  coming  up  just  then  with  Hilary 
and  the  young  poet  in  uniform. 

"  Rotten  word !  "  Brian  said,  who  disliked  it,  however,  not 
for  its  peculiar  inexpressiveness  but  for  its  present-day  associa- 
tions. 

"  I'm  not  saying  it's  a  good  word.  It  isn't,  of  course.  The 
pacifists  are  certainly  ill-served  by  their  label.  But  then,  the 
English  language  is  full  of  such  unsatisfactory  words.  Look 
at  '  suffragette,'  which  if  it  means  anything,  must  mean,  I  sup- 
pose, '  a  little  suffrage.'  " 

"  Why  not  say  '  pacificists '  and  have  done  with  it?  "  Hilary 
wanted  to  know. 

"  '  Pacificists  '  isn't  any  better:  it's  merely  longer.  I'd  rather 
have  the  hated  '  pacifist.'  And  there  isn't  so  very  much  against 
it  used  in  a  broad  sense.  All  of  us  here  hate  war  and  want 
to  prevent  its  occurring  again.  Doesn't  that  make  us  '  paci- 
fists '?  " 

"  Not  quite,  I  fancy,"  said  the  young  poet.  "  We  should 
split  up,  shouldn't  we,  over  ways  and  means?  The  issue  seems 
to  me  to  be  one  not  of  principle,  but  of  method.  All  the  peo- 
ple worth  while  want  to  end  war:  the  only  question  is  — 
how?  " 

Stephen  nodded.  He  was  grateful  to  this  tolerant  being 
whose  statement  did  not  adumbrate  the  extraordinary  bitter- 
ness of  feeling  that  seemed  eternally  to  separate  Stephen  from 
the  mass  of  people  who  disagreed  with  him. 

"  The  legacy  of  militarism  is  —  militarism,"  he  said  in  that 
quiet  tone  of  conviction  that  Brian  had  once  called  "  Gretton's 
God-Almighty  certainty."  But  it  did  not  annoy  Helena,  who 
had  more  than  a  touch  of  it  herself.  Neither  did  it  seem  to 
annoy  Lieutenant  Millington,  who  had  not. 

"  I  agree,"  he  said,  "  but  what  is  one  to  do  in  this  world 
of  armies  and  navies?  If  we  acquiesce  in  them  it  seems  to  me 


WASTE  SHORES  259 

we  acquiesce,  more  or  less,  in  war.  In  the  same  way,  of  course, 
we  acquiesce  in  our  prisons,  in  our  poor  law  and  economic 
systems.  It's  the  foundation  of  society  that's  wrong.  And  so 
long  as  we  don't  attempt  to  interfere  with  that  I  really  can't  see 
that  we've  a  leg  to  stand  on  when  we  complain  of  inevitable  (if 
inconvenient)  results." 

With  vague  relief  Helena  saw  that  this  evening  Hilary  had 
nothing  to  contribute  to  the  conversation.  He  sat  gazing  into 
the  fire  with  a  face  completely  non-committal  as  though  the 
talk  was  of  football  or  cricket. 

"  Take  the  armament  business,"  Millington  went  on.  "  If  we 
didn't  know  it  before  at  least  we've  known  it  since  Snowden's 
speech  in  the  House.  The  armament  business  is  the  one  real 
International.  Armstrong  and  Krupp  and  the  rest  of  them 
work  hand  in  hand  —  a  loving  unity  of  destruction.  Which  of 
us  has  ever  lodged  any  sort  of  protest  against  that?  It  didn't 
excite  us  to  know  that  some  of  our  foremost  *  pacifists '  held 
shares  in  armament  concerns.  And  surely  it  ought  to  have 
done." 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  say,  are  you,"  Brian  asked,  "  that 
armaments  cause  war?  " 

"  I'm  not,  but  on  the  other  hand,  no  one  can  claim  that 
they  cause  peace.  Nothing  and  nobody's  out  to  do  that,  of 
course.  Nobody  'causes'  peace:  it's  just  a  blessed  accident. 
Whoever  heard  of  a  Peace  Office?  It's  war,  not  peace,  you 
expect,  under  this  system  of  ours,  and  it's  war,  not  peace,  that 
we  prepare  for.  The  policy's  sound,  it  seems  to  me,  because 
under  the  existing  state  of  things  war,  sooner  or  later,  is  bound 
to  come.  Always  on  the  one  side  you  have  the  desire  for  the 
maintenance  of  the  status  quo  —  the  retention  of  what  is  pos- 
sessed —  and  on  the  other,  the  desire  to  possess.  We  get  down 
at  bottom  again  to  the  property  idea  that  rules  all  the  civilised 
world.  Our  very  religion  is  founded  upon  it.  Or  ought  I  to 
say  our  'creeds'?  In  our  schools  we  teach  our  children  that 
theft  is  a  greater  crime  than  cruelty,  and  we  punish  it  much 
more  severely  in  our  police-courts.  As  a  people,  possession's 
in  our  blood.  What  we  forget  is  that  it  may  be  in  other  peo- 
ple's, too." 

"  All  that's  very  probably  true,"  Barbara  interposed.  "  But, 
all  the  same,  I  don't  quite  see  where  it  takes  us  to.  Or  per- 


260  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

haps  I  do  see.  What  I  mean  is  that  it  isn't  much  good  discuss- 
ing the  beginnings  of  your  fire  while  your  house  is  burning. 
Everyone's  doing  far  too  much  talking  about  the  war  and  its 
origins.  The  thing  to  do,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  get  on  with  the 
war.  You  are,  I  know.  You've  a  right  to  talk.  I  haven't.  I 
hope  I'm  not  sounding  horribly  personal.  But  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  those  of  us  who  can't  help  had  much  better  hold 
our  tongues." 

"  Bravo !  "  agreed  Brian.  "  We're  in  it  and  we've  got  to  see 
it  through.  That's  all  that  matters  to-day,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out." 

"  It  has,  of  course,  occurred  to  you,"  suggested  Stephen, 
"  that  there  has  never  been  a  war  when  that  wasn't  said.  Up 
to  a  point,  the  certain  knowledge  that  it  would  be  said  has  made 
each  fresh  war  possible." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brian,  "  and  it  has  also  occurred  to  me  that  it 
will  continue  to  be  said  of  every  war  to  come  because  it  hap- 
pens to  be  true." 

"  Perfectly,"  Millington  agreed,  "  once  you  grant  our  posi- 
tion as  possessors  —  and  rightful  possessors  —  of  three-fourths 
of  the  habitable  globe." 

"But  there  aren't  going  to  be  any  more  wars,"  Rosamund 
observed.  "  This  is  a  war  to  end  war." 

They  told  her,  sadly,  that  Queen  Anne  was  dead. 

"What's  your  own  position,  Millington?"  Hilary  asked. 
"What  sent  you  in?  "  This  was  a  subject  upon  which  Hilary 
fished  for  motives  as  a  pretty  girl  for  compliments. 

"  Just  this,"  said  Millington.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
we  of  the  younger  generation  ought  to  have  done  better.  But 
we  did,  most  of  us,  nothing  at  all.  Politics  —  especially  the 
foreign  variety  —  aren't  popular  with  the  young  of  to-day,  or 
weren't  (I  suppose  'popular'  isn't  exactly  the  word  now.) 
Nobody  wanted  to  be  bothered.  .  .  .  There  were  exceptions,  of 
course.  There's  that  man  —  Roscoe  isn't  his  name? — out 
there  for  the  Sentinel.  Ah,  you  know  him,  do  you?  Well, 
he's  been  ploughing  his  lonely  furrow:  and  there  are  a  few 
more.  Some  of  them  are  the  most  unpopular  men  in  England 
to-day.  That  won't  last,  of  course:  they're  big  enough  to 
emerge.  But  men  like  Roscoe  have  earned  the  right  to  stand 
out  if  they  want  to.  And  I  haven't.  Very  few  of  us  have,  it 


WASTE  SHORES  261 

seems  to  me.  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure,  either,  that  one  doesn't  fight 
war  best  from  the  inside.  Anyway,  it's  a  point  of  view,  and 
one  thing's  certain.  There  isn't  anything  for  me  to  do  but 
shoulder  my  own  particular  piece  of  responsibility  and  make 
the  best  of  it.  I've  no  sort  of  right  to  be  out  of  it  when  so 
many  others  are  in,  who  probably  don't  like  it  any  better  than 
I  do.  ...  Of  course,  that's  only  my  own  personal  feeling 
about  it.  I  think  that  was  what  you  wanted.  I  hope  I  don't 
sound  didactic." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  Hilary  said.  "  I  think  you're  right.  At 
any  rate  I've  been  looking  for  an  answer  to  your  arguments 
for  ten  months  and  I  haven't  found  one  yet." 

"  But  it's  absurd,"  Vivien  objected,  "  how  could  we  have 
altered  things?  They  were  settled  before  we  were  born.  The 
juggernaut  would  have  crushed  us  like  worms  if  we'd  attempted 
to  alter  its  course." 

"Surely  that's  true?  "  said  Helena. 

"  Probably,"  said  Millington,  "  but  it's  the  effort  that  counts, 
that  would  help  us  now.  And  the  juggernaut  would  have  to 
stop  if  enough  of  us  got  in  its  way." 

"  Is  it  only  the  system?  "  Nelly  asked.  "  Isn't  it,  perhaps, 
something  inherent  in  the  nature  of  Man  who  is  a  belligerent 
animal?  I  know  that  might,  too,  explain  the  system,  but  I 
read  an  article  the  other  day  which  argued  that  war  must  be 
an  eternally  recurrent  event.  Men,  it  seems,  do  really  like 
killing  each  other." 

"  I  can't  say,"  objected  Vivien,  "  that  it's  a  phenomenon 
I'd  noticed  myself." 

"  Oh,  but  I  think  they  do,  you  know,"  Rosamund  assured 
her.  "  I  know  a  woman  who  married  a  man  who  had  a  shoot- 
ing box  down  in  the  New  Forest  somewhere.  She  told  me  that 
the  only  way  she  could  keep  him  decent  and  civilised  was  to 
pack  him  off  for  a  week  every  now  and  then  to  shoot  things.' 

"  It's  a  pity,"  said  Hilary,  "  that  he  didn't  begin  with  her." 

The  young  ptoet  smiled  quietly  into  the  fire. 

"  But  even  if  a  man  doesn't  mind  shooting  rabbits,"  he  said, 
"  isn't  there  a  possibility  that  he  may,  let  us  say  —  dislike  in- 
tensely —  the  shooting  of  his  fellow-men?  " 

"If  men  become  wild  beasts,  they  have  to  be  shot,  haven't 
they?  "  Pamela  inquired.  "  One  doesn't  want  to  do  it  (I  don't 


262  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

believe  men  want  to  kill  each  other:  that's  silly)  but  you  can't 
argue  in  the  jungle,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  if  we're  still  in  the  jungle.  .  .  ." 

Barbara,  who  did  not  like  these  discussions  any  better  than 
Helena  or  Vivien,  though  for  different  reasons,  shrugged  grace- 
ful shoulders.  The  only  thing  worth  while,  these  days,  accord- 
ing to  Barbara,  was  to  be  a  man.  She  hoped  Rosamund  wasn't 
going  to  make  a  fool  of  herself.  It  was  so  idiotic  to  talk  when 
there  was  so  much  to  be  done!  She  was  sick  of  women's  talk 
about  war  —  this  war.  Barbara  considered  war  a  man's  job 
and  the  little  that  women  could  do  scarcely  counted.  They 
ought  in  decency  to  hold  their  tongues,  and  let  men  forget  (if 
they  could)  in  war  time  that  women  existed.  What  right  had 
women,  who  so  fervently  resented  men's  interference  in  the 
sphere  of  the  feminine,  to  hound  men  on  to  the  battlefield? 
Though  Barbara  thought  all  men  ought  to  fight,  she  would  have 
died  rather  than  tell  any  man  she  thought  he  ought  to  join  up. 
The  White  Feather  Army  filled  her  with  fury,  and  though  she 
did  not  approve  of  Hilary's  indecision  at  least  she  understood 
and  respected  it.  Her  imagination  helped  her  there.  Killing 
—  even  in  so  good  a  cause  as  this  of  the  Allies  —  could  not 
be  a  pleasant  business.  She  knew  enough  of  Hilary  to  know 
that  he  would  hate  it.  But  for  herself  she  could  submerge  the 
individual  into  those  issues  that  she  considered  vastly  greater 
and  more  enduring.  If  Barbara  had  fought  she  would  not  have 
done  so  without  faith.  For  no  hopeless  cause  would  she  have 
drawn  the  sword.  But  she  was  a  woman  and  could  not  fight. 
Always  something  of  a  trial,  her  sex  just  now  was  a  positive 
pain  to  her.  In  war  time  it  was  hateful  to  be  a  woman. 

Rosamund,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  to  find  it  extraor- 
dinarily thrilling  and  romantic.  She  liked  to  think  that  vast 
numbers  of  young  men  were  marching  out  for  her  protection. 
She  made  the  war  an  intensely  personal  thing,  reached  back  to 
the  mediaeval  woman  in  her,  who  sent  her  knight  into  battle 
wearing  her  favours.  Not  that  she  wanted  young  men  to  be 
killed,  but  only  that  she  liked  to  think  they  were  willing  to  be 
killed.  Rosamund  was  rather  like  Jimmy  —  she  really  did  ap- 
preciate the  war,  and  for  reasons  of  her  own  she  was  positively 
grateful  for  it. 


WASTE  SHORES  263 

"  Do  you  think,  men  like  fighting?  "  she  asked  Hilary,  whose 
gaze  just  then  happened  to  encounter  hers. 

"  Good  Lord,  no.  I  think  they  hate  it.  Most  of  them.  I 
prefer  to  think  that,  at  any  rate." 

"But  then  it's  all  the  more  credit  to  them,  isn't  it,  when 
they  do  fight?  " 

"You  think  that  makes  them  douhly  heroes?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.     Don't  you  think  so,  Barbara?  " 

"I?     Oh,   quite,"   said   Barbara,   who   had   gone   back   to 
Stephen's  black  and  white  study  of  "  War."     "  Stephen,  this  is 
good  drawing.     But  I  wish  you  hadn't  done  it." 
/'Why?" 

"It  disturbs  me  to  remember  war's  really  like  that.  The 
beastly  thing  will  haunt  me  at  night.  And  I  don't  want  to 
be  haunted.  Since  it  has  to  be  done  one  doesn't  want  to  re- 
member that  war  is  —  like  that." 

"  Why  can't  we  face  the  truth,"  Brian  asked,  "  if  the  men 
out  there  can?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  see,  they're  doing  something.  They  haven't 
time  to  think.  They're  not  sitting  still  with  their  hands  in  front 
of  them,  their  brains  jabbing  at  them.  It's  inaction  that's  so 
dreadful." 

Inaction!  They  seemed  to  consider  that  amusing  —  even 
Brian  who  wasn't  easily  amused,  these  days!  Doubtless  he 
found  the  business  of  wire-pulling  a  sufficiently  arduous  one. 

"  I'm  the  only  inactive  person  in  this  set,"  Hilary  said  "  un- 
less we  include  Vi.  And  she  was  born  that  way  —  and  prob- 
ably doesn't  mind." 

"  You  know,"  Rosamund  broke  in,  "  I  am  so  sorry  for  the 
men  who  can't  go." 

Hilary  grinned  at  her. 

"  Are  you  really?  "  he  said.     "May  we  know  why?  " 

"  Oh  well,  it  must  be  awful  to  be  a  man  and  to  have  to  stay 
at  home.  I  wouldn't  be  out  of  it  for  the  world  —  if  I  were  a 
man." 

"Wouldn't  you  really?" 

"  I  mean,  it  s  all  very  fine  to  talk  about  the  horrid  side  of 
war  —  the  blood  and  men  being  killed  and  all  that.  I  don't  see 
the  good  of  thinking  too  much  about  that.  And  it  does  bring 


264  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

out  the  fine  qualities  in  people.  It  must  be  sent  for  some  good 
purpose,  mustn't  it?  " 

"  Like  smallpox  and  fleas,  I  suppose?  " 

Rosamund  appeared  not  to  be  very  disturbed  by  the  intro- 
duction of  smallpox  and  fleas  into  the  argument. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  just  look  at  the  brave  things  men  do  in 
battle.  I  mean,  quite  ordinary  men  that  you  wouldn't  think 
had  it  in  them.  You  mightn't  have  found  it  out  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  war.  They'd  just  have  gone  on  being  clerks  in 
offices  or  liftmen  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  must  say  I  do 
like  a  man  to  have  pluck." 

"  It  takes  a  certain  amount  of  pluck,  you  know,"  Hilary  told 
her,  "to  be  a  clerk  or  a  liftman.  They're  rotten  jobs,  both  of 
'em." 

"  I  don't  see  much  pluck  in  pushing  a  quill  or  saying  '  Stand 
clear  of  the  gates,  please.' " 

"  Oh,  doubtless  they  find  the  war  livelier,"  Hilary  said. 
"  Do  you  know,  you're  a  cheery  soul.  An  incurable  optimist. 
I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  you  totally  disagreed  with  Mr. 
Gretton's  delineation  of  war  as  a  monster.  Hand  it  over,  Bar- 
bara, and  let  her  have  a  look  at  it." 

Barbara  handed  it  over. 

"  You  any  judge  of  art?  "  Hilary  asked  Rosamund. 

"  Oh  no  —  I  only  know  what  I  like,  of  course." 

"And  you  don't  like  that,  eh?  " 

Rosamund  glanced  at  the  drawing  and  the  flesh  of  her  white 
fat  face  shivered  a  little  with  disgust. 

"You  see,"  Hilary  said,  "  you  just  can't  stand  it." 

"  Oh,  Rosamund's  one  of  the  people  like  Reece  —  who  prefer 
Britannia  with  a  flag,  aren't  you,  Rosamund?  I  don't  know 
that  they  aren't  right,"  and  Barbara  shrugged  those  graceful 
shoulders  of  hers  again. 

Rosamund  said  well,  it  would  be  more  cheerful  —  than  that, 
anyway.  Seeing  she  was  determined  to  regard  war  as  a  roman- 
tic asset  the  world  couldn't  really  manage  without,  Hilary  took 
Stephen's  regrettable  drawing  away  and  decided  that  he  was  in 
the  mood  to  find  her  amusing.  It  was  Helena  who  said  sud- 
denly and  fiercely  that  war  wasn't  cheerful  or  romantic  or 
beautiful  —  or  anything  in  fact  but  a  horror. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'd  like  to  do?  "  she  asked  Rosamund. 


WASTE  SHORES  265 

"  I'd  like  to  visit  every  battlefield  directly  the  battle  was  over. 
And  I'd  take  photographs  of  the  most  awful  things  I  saw  there 
—  the  most  awful  things  I  could  find :  the  hideous  wounds,  the 
frightful  deaths  .  .  .  and  what  happens  to  women  and  children 
and  old  men,  to  whole  towns  and  villages.  And  I'd  do  it  with- 
out the  very  least  regard  for  people's  feelings.  They  wouldn't 
—  my  photos  —  be  anything  like  the  polite  lies  you  see  at  the 
pictures  if  you  go  there.  They  wouldn't  stop  just  when  they 
were  beginning  to  get  painful." 

Rosamund's  white  face  shivered  again  with  disgust. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  of  being  morbid  about  it,"  she  said. 
"What  good  would  all  that  do?  Besides,  what  could  you  do 
with  your  photographs  when  you'd  taken  them?  " 

"  I'd  show  them,"  Helena  said,  "  to  the  people  who  haven't 
enough  imagination  to  see  such  things  for  themselves.  There 
should  be  public  exhibitions  and  attendance  should  be  compul- 
sory." 

Lieutenant  Millington  smiled  quietly  again  into  the  fire. 
Rosamund  rallied  her  forces,  managed  to  control  the  shivering 
disgust  of  her  too-fat  face. 

"  Oh  well,"  she  said,  "  it  doesn't  help  to  lose  our  tempers, 
does  it?  And  I'm  afraid  I  must  go.  I'm  *  on  '  early  this  week. 
You  will  excuse  me,  everybody,  won't  you?  " 

They  murmured  that  they  would.  Helena,  the  colour  in 
her  face,  got  up  and,  without  saying  good  night,  went  off  to 
make  coffee.  She  was  in  the  mood  to  do  something  passion- 
ately. Those  who  knew  their  Helena  felt  that  this  evening  the 
coffee  might  prove  too  strong.  .  .  . 

Hilary  mentioned  refreshment  to  the  Fair  Rosamund,  who 
said  the  Richmond  train  service  wouldn't  permit  of  it. 

"  I  go  to  South  Kensington  and  change  at  Hammersmith," 
she  informed  them.  "  It's  rather  a  long  way." 

"  Jolly  place,  Richmond,"  Hilary  said.  "  I  used  often  to 
go  there  —  before  we  had  all  these  other  interests  to  distract  us. 
You  must  come  to  see  us  again.  You've  quite  livened  us  up, 
you  know.  It  isn't  often  we  have  such  an  interesting  discus- 
sion about  the  things  that  matter.  I  don't  think  anyone  has 
ever  before  got  the  lady  who's  making  the  coffee  you  won't  stay 
for  to  talk  about  the  war  at  all." 

"  I'm  afraid,  you  know,  we  shouldn't  agree.     Funny,  saying 


266  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

nothing  practically  all  the  evening  and  then  suddenly  bursting 
out  like  that.  Took  my  breath  away.  Really  it  did.  Didn't 
it  yours,  Mrs.  Bland  .  .  .  Rand?  Oh,  Sand,  isn't  it?  Do  you 
mind  if  I  say  I  like  that  hat?  I  know  it  isn't  supposed  to 
be  polite  to  make  personal  remarks." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  Pamela  laughed.  "  You'll  see  it  de- 
scribed in  the  next  issue  of  the  Looking-Glass.  Yes,  Lady  Di's 
column.  She  has  to  describe  something  or  other  every  week 
— and  it's  a  long  while,  isn't  it,  since  she's  done  a  hat?  " 

"How  jolly!  I'll  get  it.  Good-bye.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Sar- 
gent. I'm  so  glad  you  think  every  man  ought  to  fight.  It's 
such  a  shame  you  can't  go.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you:  I  am  really. 
What  is  it?  Heart?  " 

"  Er,  yes.  It  gives  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble  at  times. 
Hearts  do,  you  know.  Hearts  are  a  mistake." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that.  And  cheer  up.  I  daresay  the  doctors 
won't  be  so  strict  presently,  when  they  find  out  how  much 
we  want  men.  (Cute  of  Rosamund,  that,  at  any  rate,  Hilary 
thought.)  Good-bye,  Mr.  .  .  .  Vincent,  isn't  it?  You  cheer 
up,  too.  I'm  sure  they'll  pass  you  presently.  Do  you  know, 
I  was  horribly  afraid  just  at  first  that  you  were  both  paci- 
fists. I'm  so  glad  you  aren't.  I  do  think  pacifists  are  ridicu- 
lous people,  don't  you?  " 

"They  don't  wash,  either,  do  they?  "  Hilary  asked. 

"  Oh,  you've  heard  that,  too,  have  you?  "  Rosamund  looked 
hard  at  Stephen  whom  she  had  now  definitely  classed  with  the 
folk  who  were  "  queer,"  but  who  presented  obvious  difficulties 
when  it  came  to  including  him  in  this  other  category  of  the 
unwashed.  Fortunately  at  the  moment  his  sense  of  humour 
seemed  to  be  rendering  him  excellent  service. 

"  It  isn't  a  subject  I'd  mention  to  everybody,  you  know," 
he  said,  "  but  I  couldn't  bear  you  to  think  badly  of  me  in  that 
respect.  The  fact  is  I  take  a  cold  bath  every  morning.  But 
perhaps  you  don't  call  that  washing?  " 

In  there  at  her  passionate  making  of  coffee  Helena  heard 
the  sudden  outburst  of  merriment.  She  was  grateful  for  laugh- 
ter, these  days,  for  you  do  not  laugh  overmuch  with  a  perpetual 
dread  in  your  heart.  Above  all  the  rest,  now,  she  heard  Hil- 
ary's voice:  it  was  long  since  she  had  heard  him  laugh  like 
that.  For  some  reason  or  other  he  was  very  gay  this  evening, 


WASTE  SHORES  267 

as  though  he  had  caught  for  a  little  while  Barbara's  trick  of 
looking  at  the  war  without  emotion.  But  that  Helena  would 
never  do.  Her  passion  of  anger  ran  through  her  still,  and, 
with  shut  eyes,  she  leaned  her  hot  forehead  against  the  wall  as 
if  to  cool  it.  That  awful  girl  —  with  her  round  white  face  and 
her  senseless  tongue!  She  wondered  vaguely  how  Hilary  could 
have  borne  to  talk  to  her,  even  though  she  knew  his  trick  of  get- 
ting a  malicious  sort  of  amusement  out  of  women  he  despised. 
Yet  even  that  nice  boy  with  the  dreamer's  eyes  had  seemed  to 
find  her  amusing!  Her  thoughts  wandered  from  Rosamund  to 
him  and  the  things  Pamela  had  said  of  him,  to  the  things  he  had 
said  of  himself.  She  wondered  if  he  would  come  again  — 
hoped  that  he  would  because  he  and  Hilary,  she  thought,  would 
get  on  well  together.  Their  views  about  the  war  were  almost 
identical.  Both  of  them  held  that  appalling  theory  about  it  — 
both  insisted  on  their  share  of  responsibility  and  —  merciful 
Heaven !  —  wanted  to  expiate  their  sin  of  omission ! 

Victims,  victims  —  everyone  of  them !  The  hot  tears  of 
pity  and  anger  welled  up  beneath  the  shut  lids,  and,  forgotten, 
the  coffee  boiled  up  and  over.  .  .  . 


It  was  Hilary  who  took  the  Fair  Rosamund  down  and  ushered 
her  forth  into  the  quiet  spring  night.  There  were  stars,  which 
she  did  not  notice,  and  no  moon,  which  she  seemed  to  resent. 
Hilary  stayed  down  there  a  moment  or  two  listening  to  her 
views  on  this  astronomical  deficiency,  and  when  he  got  back  to 
the  studio  Helena  was  bringing  in  the  coffee. 

She  saw  that  he  had  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  her  eyes  said, 
"  For  me?  "  Her  eyes  only,  because  there  were  things  you 
didn't  want  everybody  to  know,  though  you  couldn't  prevent 
them  from  guessing. 

Hilary's  eyes  said,  "  No  —  for  me."  His  lips,  "  From  Ur- 
sula I  think,  but  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  much  of  it." 

He  held  it  up  to  the  light,  but  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  open 
it. 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  pick  her  up,  Barbara?  "  he  asked. 
"She's  a  pure  joy." 

"  Rosamund,  you  mean?     Yes,  I  suppose  she  is  if  you  don't 


268  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

have  too  much  of  her.  She  palls  after  a  time,  I'm  afraid.  I 
don't  remember  how  I  came  to  know  her:  she  just  happened 
along,  as  they  say.  Never  seems  to  have  anywhere  much  to  go : 
thinks  it  rather  wrong  to  enjoy  yourself  in  war  time.  She  said 
she  liked  pictures,  so  I  brought  her  with  me,  but  it's  since 
occurred  to  me  that  she  probably  meant  the  cinema.  Her 
mind's  a  blank,  of  course.  There  are  hundreds  of  her  knocking 
around,  it  seems.  When  I  first  found  that  out  it  depressed 
me  horribly,  for  some  reason  or  other;  but  I've  got  over  it." 

"  Not  bad  looking,"  said  Nelly,  "  if  you  care  for  that  kind  of 
thing.  Good  regular  features." 

"  And  a  good  skin,"  said  Stephen  magnanimously. 

"  Oh,  her  complexion's  merely  clever,"  Pamela  told  them. 

Hilary  laughed.  "What's  her  name  anyway?  Nobody 
seems  to  have  caught  it." 

"Too  profound  for  you,  perhaps.  It's  Smith.  Rosamund 
Smith." 

"  The  Rosamund  must  have  been  a  brain  wave.  Smith  with 
a  '  y,'  of  course." 

"No  —  with  an 'e.'" 

They  laughed. 

"Well,  Smith's  a  good  enough  name  to  have  these  days," 
Nelly  alleged.  "  At  least  the  mob  recognise  it.  You've  no 
idea  what  they  can  make  of  a  name  like  Strachan  or  Menzies. 
Or  perhaps  you  have  .  .  .  Hallo,  what's  up?  " 

Helena  turned  from  her  coffee  tray  at  that  moment  to  see 
Hilary  standing,  white  to  the  lips,  with  a  telegraph  form  in  his 
hands  that  he  seemed  to  have  drawn  from  Ursula's  envelope. 
The  cup  she  was  handing  to  Lieutenant  Millington  found  its 
way  back  on  to  the  tray,  because  nobody  just  then  was  thinking 
of  coffee.  Clustered  round  in  a  little  group  they  were  staring 
at  Hilary,  and  what  they  said  came  to  Helena  with  a  tinge  of 
unreality  —  like  voices  in  a  mist.  "  What's  wrong? " 
"What's  happened?"  "Hallo,  old  man,  bad  news?"  She 
wondered  why  it  was  they  didn't  guess.  Because  she  did.  Not 
"  guess  " —  that  wasn't  the  word.  She  knew.  The  certainty  of 
her  knowledge  rendered  her  for  those  first  few  seconds  speech- 
less and  motionless.  The  coffee  cups  executed  an  idiotic  dance 
before  her  eyes,  the  room  swam,  and  then  she  found  herself  on 
the  edge  of  the  little  ring  of  people,  with  Hilary  handing  her 


WASTE  SHORES  269 

the  telegram  over  their  heads,  as  though  she  were  the  only 
person  he  saw. 

The  telegram  was  addressed  to  Ursula  Wyatt  by  the  War  Of- 
fice and  Ursula  had  sent  it  on  to  Hilary  because,  as  she  had  pen- 
cilled across  the  corner,  she  "  couldn't  write  about  it  —  yet." 

It  was  Helena,  not  Hilary,  who  announced  what  Ursula  could 
not  write. 

"Arthur  Yeomans  was  killed  nearly  a  month  ago  ...  in 
Gallipoli." 

It  seemed  as  though  her  words  turned  to  stone  as  she  spoke 
and  pressed,  cold  and  wan,  upon  her.  She,  too,  seemed  to 
be  turning  to  stone:  she  was  suddenly  hideously  cold  and 
frightened.  She  was  conscious  of  Mark  Antony  stretching  him- 
self beautifully  before  the  fire;  of  a  quick  short  cry  that  seemed 
to  come  from  Barbara;  of  horror  settling  itself  down  crudely 
upon  the  anxious  faces  around  her,  and  of  Hilary  standing 
there  in  the  midst  of  them,  both  hands  pressed  tightly  over  his 
eyes.  .  .  . 


They  went,  all  of  them,  almost  immediately,  leaving  the 
coffee  to  get  cold  in  Hilary's  tall  blue  pot. 

Afterwards  Helena  could  not  remember  saying  goodnight 
to  any  of  them.  She  only  remembered  that  Hilary  hadn't 
moved;  that  one  by  one  they  had  fallen  away  from  him,  calling 
out  a  soft  goodnight  as  they  went.  All  save  Barbara,  who  had 
gone  up  to  him  and  touched  his  arm. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  "  don't.  It's  all  over  —  for  him.  He's 
dead  and  he  doesn't  suffer  any  longer.  And  he  had  the  death 
he  would  have  wished." 

**  It's  a  lie,"  Helena  thought.  "  Nobody  could  possibly  wish 
to  die  —  like  that."  She  looked  at  Barbara  —  saw  that  her 
face  was  white,  her  hands  clenched,  and  remembering  that  lit- 
tle instinctive  cry  she  had  a  sudden  rush  of  pity  and  admira- 
tion. But  Hilary  gave  no  sign  that  he  had  heard.  And  pres- 
ently Barbara  went.  With  the  closing  of  the  door  Helena's  fu- 
gitive feeling  of  pity  fled  and  a  spurt  of  anger  came  up  in  its 
place,  because  Barbara  seemed  never,  these  days,  to  feel  any- 
thing at  all  —  because  she  could  look  unbroken  upon  this  mon- 


270  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

itrous  thing  that  had  overtaken  the  world.     She  was  like  the 
man  who  boasts  in  his  club  that  he  has  "  given  six  sons." 

And  yet,  so  Hilary  had  always  maintained,  she  had  cared  for 
Arthur  Yeomans.  . 


She  coaxed  him  presently  to  the  armchair  by  the  fire: 
switched  off  the  light,  too  gay  for  sorrow,  and  sat  there  at  his 
feet,  her  forehead  pressed  in  wordless  sympathy  against  his 
knee.  Mark  Antony  slept  on  in  the  silence  and  the  loitering 
shadows  climbed  slowly  up  and  down  the  walls  and  over  their 
quiet  figures.  Neither  spoke.  She  would  have  died  just  then 
to  have  been  able  to  comfort  him,  and  he  seemed  almost  to  have 
forgotten  she  was  there.  But  when  (after  a  long  time)  he  re- 
membered, he  sat  up  and  took  her  into  his  arms. 

*'  Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  do  see,  don't  you,  that  this 
.  .  .  settles  it?  " 

She  nodded,  choked  into  silence  by  an  unexpected  passion  of 
tears.  She  had  always  understood  this  day  must  come,  but  she 
had  not  known  she  would  shed  tears.  It  had  always  seemed 
that,  somehow,  she  must  be  braver  than  that. 

But  though  she  said  nothing  Hilary  knew  she  did  "  see." 
Between  them  argument  and  pleading  were  at  an  end:  silence 
possessed  them  and  sad-hearted  acquiescence,  while  Helena 
cried  softly  on  Hilary's  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  THREE 


THE  greater  part  of  the  next  day  —  •  which  was  Whit- 
Sunday —  they  spent  putting  things  in  order,  stacking 
pictures  up  against  the  walls  and  on  shelves,  doing 
queer  things  with  favourite  brushes  that  must  be  neglected  but 
must  not  be  spoiled:  burning  letters  which  were  better  burned 
(a  painful  process,  this  —  like  burning  some  part  of  yourself) 
and  writing  others  to  the  people  who  mattered  —  to  Ursula,  to 
Ronnie  at  Salisbury,  to  Brian,  Stephen  and  the  rest.  Because 
Hilary  was  going  at  once  —  if  they  would  have  him.  Next 
Saturday  when  the  "  Remnant "  came  they  would  find  Helena 
there  alone.  His  little  notes  asked  them  particularly  to  go  on 
coming  as  usual  because  Helena  must  have  a  lot  of  company. 
.  .  .  He  wasn't  going,  if  he  could  help  it,  to  give  her  much 
time  for  thinking.  .  .  . 

It  was  his  idea,  too,  that  Helena  should  remain  at  the  studio. 
The  rent  was  paid  (thanks  to  Hilary's  short  way  with  accounts) 
for  some  months  ahead,  and  someone  might  as  well  live  in  it. 
There  was  nobody  but  Helena,  it  appeared,  with  whom  he 
would  leave  his  pictures  lying  about  like  that;  nobody,  either, 
with  whom  he  would  trust  Mark  Antony.  So  that,  at  least,  was 
settled. 

"  What  about  a  stroll?  "  Hilary  said  presently.  "  It's  a  nice 
evening." 

It  was,  but  out  there  in  the  streets  newsboys  were  shouting 
that  Italy  had  declared  war  on  Austria.  Everyone  seemed  to 
find  that  a  particularly  heartening  circumstance.  But  this 
evening  it  did  not  seem  to  matter  —  much  —  to  Helena  who  else 
was  to  be  in  the  war  now  that  Hilary  was. 


271 


272  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


On  the  following  day  (which  was  Whit-Monday)  they  tried 
walking  in  Surrey.  But  it  was  the  least  successful  walk  they 
had  ever  taken.  There  was,  of  course,  everything  against  its 
being  successful,  but  chiefly  there  was  that  desperate  common 
intention  to  put  a  good  face  upon  things.  The  worst  of  put- 
ting a  good  face  upon  things  is  that  it  tires  you  out  so  soon  and 
so  utterly.  And  certainly  Helena  was  tired  when  they  reached 
home,  with  that  terrible  tiredness  that  is  three-parts  fatigue  of 
the  spirit.  Hilary  made  her  put  up  her  feet  while  he  bustled 
round  with  tea  and  poked  at  his  newly  built  fire,  thinking  she 
was  cold.  She  was,  but  it  wasn't  a  fire  which  would  warm 
her. 

Before  the  meal  was  over  Evey  dropped  in  with  Estelle,  en 
route  for  the  Wigmore  Hall.  Estelle,  these  days,  was  a  grumpy 
moody  child  for  whom  no  adventures  were  left.  Music  had 
been  an  adventure  and  the  German  professors  and  Desiree.  .  .  . 
And  the  thought  of  Leipsic.  And  they  were  all  gone.  Helena 
watched  her  lure  Hilary  over  to  his  Bliithner  and  keep  him 
there  —  ostensibly,  at  least,  he  stayed  to  defend  the  English 
musician  against  Estelle's  quite  vicious  onslaughts.  Little  bits 
of  it  all  reached  Helena  and  Evey.  Names  drifted  across  to 
them  —  Elgar,  Joseph  Holbrook,  John  Ireland  and  Ethel 
Smyth.  And  in  the  middle  of  it  Evey  (who  wasn't  a  scrap  in- 
terested in  the  musicians)  said  suddenly  to  Helena  (who  wasn't 
either) : 

"  What  on  earth's  the  matter,  Lena?     Aren't  you  well?  " 

"  I'm  always  well." 

"  But  you  look  like  a  ghost." 

Colour  came  into  the  ghost's  white  face. 

"  Let's  take  these  into  the  kitchen.  We  can  talk  there,"  Hel- 
ena said,  motioning  Hilary  back  from  his  attempted  rescue  of 
the  tray.  "  It's  all  right,  dear.  You  stay  there  with  Estelle." 

Evey,  leading  the  way  into  the  kitchen,  reflected  that  this 
was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  heard  Helena  call  Hilary 
"  dear."  None  so  chary  as  they  of  their  verbal  endearments  in 
company!  Behind  the  barrier  of  the  closed  kitchen  door  Hel- 
ena explained  things  without  preamble  to  Evey,  who  said  at  the 
end  of  it,  "  Oh,  Lena,  you  ought  to  have  kept  him  out." 


WASTE  SHORES  273 

"  I  couldn't  possibly  do  that." 

"  Someone  ought.  He  isn't  the  sort.  Phil  said  that  long 
ago.  You  can't  imagine  Hilary  out  there  in  that  .  .  .  mess. 
He'll  hate  it." 

"  I  know.  But  then,  don't  all  the  others?  I  haven't  any 
right  to  demand  preferential  treatment  for  someone  I  —  love." 

Helena  began  putting  the  teacups  in  the  bowl,  her  pale  face 
averted  from  Evey,  who  said  nothing  because  the  only  words 
she  could  think  of  seemed  suddenly  to  have  lost  their  meaning. 
There  at  the  sink  Helena  said  unexpectedly, 

*'  You  know,  don't  you,  all  about  things?  " 

"Your  things?" 

"  Ours  —  mine  and  Hilary's." 

"  I  guessed.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Lena?  " 

"  I  ought  to  have  done.  Hilary  would  have  it  that  way. 
You  see,  he  minded  so  much  ...  at  first  .  .  .  that  we  couldn't 
get  married." 

"  Aren't  you  ever  going  to?  " 

"  We  can't.     Jerome  won't  release  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  old  reason.  If  I  won't  belong  to  him:  .  .  ."  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  only  ever  so  slightly,  because  it  wasn't 
a  trick  of  hers,  nor  one  she  admired. 

"  Do  you  mind  very  dreadfully?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  at  all  ...  deep  down.  It  doesn't  seem  to 
matter.  It  never  has.  It  complicates  things,  of  course.  But 
that's  different." 

Evey   nodded. 

"  But  complications  can  be  horrid.  They  get  in  the  way. 
It  isn't  nice  to  be  cut  by  your  relatives.  Of  course  yours  have 
cut  you?  " 

"  Long  ago  .  .  .  except  my  brother  ...  the  youngest  one, 
Walter.  He's  been  tremendously  understanding  and  kind.  So 
has  Cissie  .  .  .  the  girl  he's  going  to  marry  —  if  he  comes 
back.  He's  in  the  thick  of  it." 

"  France?  " 

Helena  nodded. 

"  It's  funny  how  little  all  that  '  other '  has  hurt.  It  was  like 
a  skin  wound  ...  the  bleeding  soon  stopped.  Somehow,  it 
just  hasn't  mattered.  Nothing  has,  you  see." 


274  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

She  poured  hot  water  on  her  teacups  and  began  to  .turn  them 
down  to  drain. 

'  What  will  you  do  now,  Lena?  " 

'  God  knows." 

'  But  do  you?  " 

'  I  shall  go  on  living  here  —  and  there's  my  work." 

'  Mr.  Bletchington's  work?  " 

Helena  nodded.  Evey  seized  a  towel  and  began  to  dry  the 
cups  and  saucers. 

"Isn't  he  a  trial,  these  days?  Phil  says  he's  one  of  those 
people  who  have  helped  to  bring  this  war  about  —  created  the 
atmosphere  which  made  it  possible." 

"  With  Germany,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  strange,  isn't  it,  how  soon  it  developed  into  an 
Anglo-German  war.  It  didn't  start  like  that." 

"  I  daresay  Phil's  right,"  Helena  said,  her  mind  on  the  back 
files  of  the  Britisher.  "  Germany's  probably  got  a  few  Mr. 
Bletchingtons  of  its  own.  But  it  isn't  war  he's  talking  about 
just  now.  It's  God  —  not  a  very  nice  sort  of  God,  somehow." 

"  Mr.  Bletchington's  God  wouldn't  be,"  Evey  said.  "  Even 
if  he  didn't  run  him  as  a  limited  liability  company." 

"  Very  limited,"  agreed  Helena.  "  His  outlook's  positively 
appalling." 

On  that,  however,  Mr.  Bletchington's  patronage  of  the 
Almighty  as  a  topic  of  conversation  fizzled  out,  for  neither 
Helena  nor  Evey  was  really  interested  in  Mr.  Bletchington. 
He  was  just  a  symptom,  a  sign  and  token  of  a  world  terribly 
out  of  joint.  It  was  like  discussing  one's  bodily  ailments  to 
talk  of  him.  Evey  cursed  him  as  she  hung  her  damp  towel  over 
a  chair. 

"  Is  Hilary  applying  for  a  commission?  "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  he'll  join  as  a  private." 

"  That's  good.  Far  less  risk,  so  Phil  says.  I'm  glad  you 
insisted  on  that." 

"  I  didn't,"  Helena  said,  "  I  didn't  even  think  of  it.  It  was 
always  understood  that  if  he  joined  it  would  be  as  a  private. 
You  see,  he  hates  the  caste  of  the  Army.  It  hurts  the  democrat 
in  him,  he  says." 

"  I  should  have  thought  everything  about  the  Army  did 
that,"  Evey  said. 


WASTE  SHORES  275 

But  Helena's  thoughts  had  moved  on. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Evey,  don't  tell  him  Phil  thinks  there's 
less  risk  as  a  private." 

"  You  think  he  might  alter  his  mind?  " 

"  Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid.  Of  everything. 
And  Hilary's  so  quixotic.  He  takes  the  war  so  badly.  There 
was  a  young  lieutenant  here  the  other  night  —  a  poet,  quite  a 
good  one  too.  E.  T.  M.  of  the  Monitor.  Phil  would  know. 
Pamela  brought  him  with  her.  Of  course  she  talked  the  usual 
warrior  rubbish  about  him.  But  he  wasn't  a  bit  like  that, 
really.  You  could  see  he  hated  the  war;  he  was  talking  about  it 
just  as  Hilary  does;  he  would  have  it  that  he  had  a  personal 
share  in  the  responsibility  for  it.  I  know  Phil  takes  that  line, 
but  it  seems  to  me  such  awful  nonsense." 

"Don't  you  think  we  all  are  responsible  —  up  to  a  point? 
Not  individually,  perhaps,  but  as  a  community  —  a  social 
group?  It  was  up  to  us  to  do  better.  None  of  us  cared 
enough.  When  we  do,  things  get  altered." 

Helena  shook  her  head.  She  had  "  cared  "  all  her  life,  not 
definitely,  perhaps,  about  war,  but  at  least  generally  about  the 
system  which  most  people  were  agreed  produced  it.  Not  the 
people  who  painted  some  nations  completely  white  and  others 
completely  black,  of  course;  but  still,  a  fair  proportion  of  peo- 
ple who  did  honestly  want  to  arrive  at  the  truth. 

"  We  couldn't  have  done  anything,"  she  said,  "  the  founda- 
tions of  this  war  were  laid  by  old  men  .  .  .  when  we  were  in 
our  cradles.  You  can't  dodge  the  inevitable.  No  amount  of 
'  caring '  could  do  it.  Certain  things  happen  if  certain  things 
are  done.  It's  inexorable  —  like  the  law  of  gravity.  Phil 
cared,  but  what  could  he  do?  It  doesn't  make  any  difference 
how  much  you  care  —  except  that  you  suffer  more.  It  isn't 
nice  to  suffer.  Perhaps  that's  why  most  people  don't  care  at 
all." 

"  People  don't  know.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  think  they'd  care  if  they  did?  Do  you  think 
they'd  revolt?  English  people  don't.  The  war  has  killed  my 
belief  in  democracy.  I  can't  see  that  the  men  who  are  dying 
out  there  aren't  liberators  or  rescuers  of  the  oppressed  or  any- 
thing at  all  but  helpless  victims  of  an  iniquitous  system.  Even 
the  men  who  are  fighting  don't  see  it." 


276  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Some  of  them  do.  Hilary  sees  it  —  or  will.  Phil  sees  it. 
That  nice  poet  youth  sees  it.  .  .  ." 

"Victims!  "  said  Helena,  "Victims!  " 

Her  white  face  showed  suffering  and  a  certain  hopelessness. 
She  dropped  like  a  wind-flower  in  a  hothouse.  Something  in 
face  and  attitude  pulled  Evey  up  sharp. 

"  Lena,"  she  said,  "  don't  think  I  don't  care  .  .  .  but  one  just 
must  not  care  too  much  if  one's  going  to  live  at  all.  Barbara's 
right  there,  anyhow.  We've  got  to  set  our  teeth  and  bear  it." 

"  Victims !  "  Helena  said  again.  "  We,  too.  All  of  us  —  a 
world  of  victims !  "  She  hung  up  her  overall  behind  the  door, 
and  turning  flung  her  arms  suddenly  round  Evey's  neck.  "  Oh, 
Evey,  Evey,  it's  horrible.  Just  think.  It's  going  on  now  .  .  . 
at  this  moment  —  and  we  can't  stop  it.  We  can't  do  anything." 

"  Don't,  don't,"  Evey  said.  "  Try  not  to  think.  It  doesn't 
help." 

"  Nothing  helps  —  I  know  that." 

"  One  helps  oneself  —  in  time." 

"  In  time!  "  Helena  said,  "  with  every  day  coming  on  like  a 
century!  "  She  reached  out  valiantly  for  composure:  raised 
her  head  and  with  cold  hands  that  trembled  readjusted  the 
mask.  "  Let's  go  in,  shall  we?  " 


They  went  in. 

"  Lena's  told  me,"  Evey  said  to  Hilary  down  at  the  door. 
"  Good-bye  and  good  luck." 

Estelle  said,  "  Oh,  you're  not  going  too,  are  you?  " 

Estelle  had  her  own  ideas  of  excitement:  they  did  not  run 
to  khaki  and  military  bands. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  Hilary  told  her,  and  thought  how  nice  she 
was  to  look  at,  and  what  a  handful  she  must  be  to  the  people 
who  owned  her.  But  it  was  Evey's  serious  eyes  that  remained 
in  his  memory  when  Estelle's  insouciant  beauty  was  forgotten. 
That  same  evening  he  suggested  that  Helena  should  have  Evey 
to  live  with  her  when  he  had  gone.  The  hideous  finality  of  his 
phrase  took  Helena's  breath  away,  but  she  assented. 

"  Evey,"  she  said,  "  wouldn't  mind  being  bundled  off  when 
you  came  home  ...  on  leave." 


WASTE  SHORES  277 

"  You  think  I'd  like  her  '  bundled  off  '?" 

She  said  that  she  thought  she  would,  anyway. 

They  left  it  at  that,  having  just  thqn  so  many  other  things  to 
think  of,  but  also  because  Hilary  was  suddenly  aware  of  the 
new  frightening  look  about  Helena.  He  was  awed  by  the  white 
austerity  of  her :  saw  her  face  as  if  it  were  graven  in  stone  —  as 
though  the  sphinx  might  call  her  daughter.  He  realised  the 
effort  things  were  costing  her  —  guessed  that  in  there  in  the 
kitchen,  whilst  he  had  laughed  with  Estelle,  the  white  mask  had 
been  lifted;  that  Evey  had  seen  beneath  the  stone.  She  suf- 
fered —  and  nobody  could  help  her.  Nobody  could  help  either 
of  them.  .  .  . 

Victims!  Victims  .  .  .  bound  and  delivered!  His  youth 
and  passion  sobbed  out  its  bitter  protest. 

Hilary  certainly  would  have  agreed,  there,  with  Helena's 
obiter  dicta! 


They  sat  there  long  into  the  night,  gazing  into  the  fire: 
hoping  for  the  future,  remembering  the  past.  .  .  . 

For  whatever  happened  they  had  nad  ten  months  of  happiness 
that  could  not  be  taken  from  them.  They  regretted  nothing. 
It  was  strange  (or  wasn't  it,  perhaps?)  how,  in  the  light  of  this 
catastrophe  which  had  overtaken  the  world,  all  the  old  scruples 
had  vanished.  Nothing  of  all  that  mattered  any  longer. 

Presently,  nothing  mattered  at  all,  save  that  after  this  they 
had,  somehow,  to  live  without  each  other,  and  that  Good-bye, 
stern-visaged,  inexorable,  waited  for  them  on  the  windy  plains 
of  Circumstance.  They  went  out  presently  to  do  battle  with 
it,  met  it  with  brave  eyes  and  lips  that  smiled.  .  .  . 

And  then  in  the  morning  it  stood  before  them  again,  uncon- 
quered  and  with  a  bitterer  countenance.  Dressed  and  ready 
for  the  office  Helena  met  its  renewed  challenge  without  hope, 
knowing  herself  vanquished,  striving  only  to  keep  calm  the 
face  she  raised  for  Hilary's  last  kiss,  and  suddenly  appalled  by 
the  tide  of  misery  that  swept  over  her  as  his  arms  came  round 
her.  She  pulled  herself  free  with  a  sob  in  her  throat,  yet  man- 
aged to  smile  at  him  from  the  doorway,  bringing  to  this  last 
minute  all  the  reserves  she  had,  emptying  herself.  .  .  . 

It  took,  she  found,  a  certain  amount  of  courage  to  open  the 


278  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

front  door  and  let  herself  out  into  the  bright  May  morning,  to 
fall  in  —  an  unconcerned  unit  —  among  those  quiet  figures  on 
the  pavement. 

During  that  short  journey  to  the  office  the  world  of  women 
divided  itself  sharply  into  two  —  those  who  had  said  good-bye 
to  the  men  they  loved  and  those  who  had  not. 


And  then  Helena  had  to  say  hers  all  over  again,  because  they 
sent  Hilary  back  that  night,  with  orders  to  report  at  ten-thirty 
the  next  morning,  when  he  and  the  rest  of  this  latest  batch  of 
recruits  were  proceeding  to  Essex.  This,  it  seemed,  was  a  way 
they  had  in  the  Army.  It  had  a  lot  of  "  ways,"  you  found, 
very  few  of  which  commended  themselves  to  you. 

But  they  smiled  at  the  anti-climax  the  War  Office  had  thrust 
upon  them  —  and  were  tremendously  grateful  to  it  for  having 
made  it  Essex.  Helena,  because  Essex  was  not  so  very  far 
away,  because  it  came  easily  within  the  limits  of  the  commer- 
cial "  week-end  " :  and  Hilary  for  that  reason  and  because  he 
knew  you  got  wonderful  sunsets  in  Essex.  It  rather  looked, 
Helena  thought,  as  though  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  painting 
and  war  might  perhaps  go  together,  after  all  —  if  you  were 
wearing  khaki. 

He  even  went  so  far  (on  that  odd  evening  the  War  Office  had 
thrown  him)  as  to  turn  "  Interior  "  again  to  the  light,  as  though 
he  meant  to  try  to  work  at  it.  But  it  remained  there  on  his 
easel  untouched,  and  in  the  morning  Helena  watched  him  cover 
it  up  and  turn  it  back  again  to  the  wall. 

Just  at  first  when  he  came  home  on  leave  it  was  an  operation 
he  repeated.  But  he  never  added  anything  to  it  nor  took  any- 
thing away,  and  after  a  while  he  ceased  to  disturb  it.  He 
seemed  so  quickly  to  find  that  the  khaki  made  no  difference  at 
all  —  that,  for  him,  at  least,  war  and  painting,  do  what  he 
might,  would  never  "  mix." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


SUMMER  came  —  a   thing  extravagant  and   useless,  too 
sweet  to  be  borne.  .  .  . 
Somehow  Helena  got  through  June  and  July,  grateful 
for  Evey's  companionship  and  for  Estelle's  music,  sad  at  heart 
all  the  time,  but  mostly  too  busily  occupied  to  remember  it. 
And  grateful,  always,  for  the  thought  of  Essex,  and  the  memory 
of  a  fugitive  week-end  she  had  spent  there  —  six  miles  from  the 
Camp,  unfortunately,  because  there  were  other  people  grateful 
for  Essex  and  desirous  of  contriving  week-ends. 

In  London  —  Heaven  alone  knew  why !  —  people  were  tak- 
ing bets  that  the  war  would  end  by  Christmas.  Meantime,  it 
went  on.  London  had  suffered  its  first  raid.  In  Gallipoli 
there  had  been  a  British  and  French  advance;  the  Austro-Ger- 
mans  had  captured  Lemberg  and  German  South-West  Africa 
was  in  Allied  hands. 

Helena  went  on  with  her  work;  Mr.  Bletchington  with  his. 
Week  by  week  the  Britisher  appeared  —  a.  perpetual  exercise 
in  futility.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  queer  world  —  even  apart  from  the  war  —  with  the 
pendulum  of  events  swinging  wide;  so  that  at  the  Old  Bailey 
there  was  a  man  named  Smith  being  tried  for  the  murder  of 
three  "  wives,"  and  at  the  Coliseum  Lydia  Kyasht  danced  beau- 
tifully. .  .  . 

People  came  (as  Hilary  had  asked  them)  to  see  Helena  and 
Evey.  Brian,  who  liked  Helena  and  could  be  fairly  sure  oi 
meeting  Vivien  there  on  a  Saturday  evening,  came  quite  regu- 
larly. He  continued  to  apply  himself  industriously  to  the  pull- 
ing of  strings,  sometimes  with  hope,  sometimes  not,  but  always 
with  determination.  Ragtime,  as  a  hobby,  took  second-place 
these  days  to  the  new  queer  one  of  being  medically  examined. 
The  doctors  still  said  "  no,"  l>ut  Brian  cherished  the  unalter- 

279 


280  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

able  conviction  that  they  must  sooner  or  later  get  tired  of  it  and 
say  "  yes  "  for  a  change.  Meantime  his  friends  discovered  for 
him  a  strong  vein  of  unsuspected  optimism,  and  Brian  that  the 
pleasing  legend  concerning  the  Englishman's  love  of  his  bath 
was  in  nowise  founded  on  fact.  But  then,  as  Barbara  pointed 
out,  Brian  had  all  the  contempt  of  the  man  who  takes  a  cold 
water  bath  each  morning  for  the  man  who  does  not. 

Less  often  than  Brian  —  perhaps  because  of  Brian  —  Stephen 
Gretton  came.  He  talked  to  Helena  and  Evey  of  the  things 
nobody  else  would  listen  to  and  brought  them  messages  from 
Stella  at  Brighton.  Sometimes  he  went  out  on  Saturday  after- 
noons with  Helena  and  Evey  to  Kew  or  Richmond;  but  not  too 
often,  because  young  men  in  mufti  did  not  really  care  for  walk- 
ing abroad  these  days  —  and  besides,  Kew  and  Richmond  made 
Helena  sad.  He  painted  few  pictures  and  sold  fewer;  went  to 
meetings  and  helped  sometimes  to  pass  Resolutions.  Some- 
times not.  Either  way,  Stephen's  life  did  not  sound  too  excit- 
ing. .  .  . 

Just  occasionally,  when  she  had  an  evening  to  spare,  Pamela 
would  look  in  upon  them.  Busier  than  ever  was  Pamela  in  the 
summer  of  nineteen-fifteen,  with  her  hours  marked  out  with 
the  clarity  of  a  war-map  by  determined  Colonials,  who  liked 
to  be  seen  about  with  her.  You  really  couldn't  blame  them  for 
that. 

Barbara  Feilding,  grown  quieter  of  late  and  less  than  ever 
inclined  to  talk  of  the  war,  came  (as  she  always  had  done) 
when  you  least  expected  her;  and  sometimes  she  brought  Rosa- 
mund, who  wanted  details  of  Hilary's  venturing  but  lost  interest 
when  she  heard  he  had  joined  as  a  private.  Denis  remained  in 
Ireland,  contributing  opinions  about  Irish  affairs  to  his  "  lead- 
ing morning  paper,"  which  you  might  read  if  it  happened,  of 
course,  to  be  the  particular  paper  you  affected.  Not  that  it 
mattered  very  much  because  Barbara  was  probably  right  when 
she  said  that  what  Denis  really  thought  and  felt  about  Ireland 
would  be  not  in  his  articles  but  in  the  letters  he  never  wrote. 

Olive  and  Dagmar  came  sometimes  together,  with  a  lot  of 
jolly  tales  about  the  Wounded  (they  spelt  it  like  that,  you  felt, 
with  a  capital  W) ;  and  about  queer  things  which  happen  in 
hospitals.  They  both  wore  V.  A.  D.  uniforms  and  were  apt  to 
become  lyrical  upon  nursing  as  a  sweated  profession.  (At 


WASTE  SHORES  281 

least  Olive  became  lyrical,  Dagmar  making  a  fairly  successful 
chorus,  which  was  less  exhausting.)  They  had  made  the  mu- 
tual and  interesting  discovery  that  all  nurses  at  some  time  or 
other  suffered  from  varicose. veins,  and  Olive,  it  seemed,  was 
constantly  in  trouble  for  sitting  down  when  on  duty.  You 
gathered  that  she  sat  down  less  because  she  was  tired  or  afraid 
of  varicose  veins  than  because  one  had  to  make  a  protest  against 
a  cast  iron  and  inhuman  system,  and,  also,  because  she  liked 
making  a  protest. 

A  cheerful  person,  Olive  —  with  no  theories  and  no  dismal 
thoughts,  but  with  a  boundless  energy  and  a  sunny  spirit.  Art 
knew  her,  these  days,  not  at  all  (which  was  a  good  thing  for 
art,  so  Hilary  said  in  his  letters) ;  she  divided  her  time  equally 
between  attending  the  Wounded  in  hospital,  having  them  to 
tea  and  giving  them  concerts  (at  which  Vivien  would  never 
play).  You  felt,  somehow,  that  the  Wounded  rather  liked  it 
• —  and  Olive.  Or  liked  it  because  of  Olive,  perhaps. 

And  on  two  memorable  occasions  Lieutenant  Millington  came 
again. 


Out  of  her  busy  days  Helena  wrote  regularly  to  Hilary. 
Of  the  books  she  read,  the  plays  she  saw,  the  concerts  they  at- 
tended with  Estelle  —  and  her  free  tickets.  Of  the  other  things 
she  and  Evey  found  to  do  and  the  things  they  talked  of  o 'nights. 
Of  the  sweetness  and  wonder  of  Evey  and  the  joy  of  having  her 
there  like  that  at  the  studio.  Of  Barbara,  who  wouldn't  talk 
of  the  war,  of  Pamela,  who  would,  and  of  Brian  and  the  ropes 
he  pulled;  of  Vivien  and  the  violin  you  couldn't  get  her  to  play, 
and  of  walks.  Of  Mark  Antony,  grown  resigned  to  his  lonely 
days  and  given  to  wandering  about  looking  for  Hilary  in  un- 
likely corners  and  under  impossible  things.  Of  London  and 
Surrey  and  Bucks.  And  sometimes  (but  not  often)  of  Rich- 
mond and  Kew.  Of  the  "  Deirdre  "  picture,  and  of  a  letter 
from  the  Secretary  of  the  Draycott  Galley  inquiring  if  Hilary's 
determination  not  to  sell  was  adamant.  Of  its  subsequent  re- 
turn when  he  said  that  it  was;  and  of  the  startling  way  it  looked 
across  at  you  in  the  studio.  (A  good  deal  of  this  because  pic- 
torial art  was  still  black  magic  and  black  magic  is  a  fascinating 


282  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

topic) .  Of  Phil's  dispatches,  which  made  terrible  reading,  and 
of  his  letters  which  did  not,  because  Evey  and  the  Censor  would 
have  it  so;  and  of  places  she  and  Evey  discovered  between 
them  (like  the  Ethical  Church  at  Pimlico  and  a  sweep's  house 
off  Moorgate  Street  that  had  flower  boxes  at  the  window  and 
might  have  stepped  out  of  Surrey).  Of  Conrad  who  had  been 
home  on  leave  and  cared  no  longer  for  Dagmar.  Of  the  Brit- 
isher and  the  fatherliness  of  Mr.  Bletchington ;  of  his  new 
strange  views  on  religion  and  of  his  unlovely  and  unlovable 
God.  Of  Stephen,  who  was  dreadfully  hard  up  and  holding  on 
to  his  unpopular  ideals  with  both  hands.  Of  Ronnie  who  had 
been  home  on  leave,  and  of  Lieutenant  Millington  who  had  gone 
to  France.  .  .  . 

And  sometimes  —  though  not  often,  because  this  wasn't  the 
sort  of  letter  that  helped,  nor  that  a  soldier  really  wanted 
—  about  the  emptiness  of  things;  the  memory  of  the  Essex 
week-end  and  the  difficulty  of  waiting  for  the  leave  Hilary  was 
going,  some  day,  to  get. 

Hilary  knew,  when  he  got  a  letter  of  this  sort,  that  she 
thought  him  less  clever  than  Ronnie  who  had  managed  this 
question  of  leave  so  much  better. 

\He  liked  her  to  admire  Ronnie,  who  needed  admiration  and 
letters  these  days,  because  Salisbury  Plain  was  not  exactly  fes- 
tive and  Pamela  was  not  given  to  rushing  down  there  for  occa- 
sional week-ends.  Pamela,  of  course,  preferred  Chelsea,  Pic- 
cadilly and  the  Savoy.  Anybody  would. 


From  Essex  Hilary  wrote  of  the  dull  things  he  was  doing 
there,  and  of  the  people  he  was  with,  who  were  less  dull,  you 
gathered,  or,  rather,  not  dull  at  all.  Of  drills  and  sergeants, 
of  route  marches,  of  strange  new  companions  ("good  sorts" 
mostly).  Of  rifles  (an  extensive  subject  in  which  Helena 
wasn't  interested)  and  of  Essex  landscapes  (in  which  she  was). 
And  of  the  memory  of  a  recent  week-end;  of  "  Interior,"  and  of 
the  leave  he  was  going  —  some  day  —  to  get. 

And  sometimes  (but  not  too  often)  of  Themselves  and  Love 
and  days  that  being  dead  were  yet  alive.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  the  fighting  round  Ypres  went  on;  train-loads  of 


WASTE  SHORES  283 

wounded  steamed  heavily  into  the  London  termini,  and  Ronnie 
Sand  went  out  to  France. 


It  was  on  a  Thursday  in  mid-July  that  Pamela  in  a  state  of 
tremendous  excitement  rushed  in  and  asked  Helena  and  Evey 
if  they  had  seen  the  papers.  They  said  they  had  seen  as  much 
of  them  as  they  wanted  to  see;  and  what,  particularly,  had 
they  missed? 

An  account,  it  seems,  of  an  act  of  conspicuous  bravery  per- 
formed by  Lieutenant  Millington,  who  had  saved  the  life  of  one 
of  his  men  while  they  held  some  impossible  position  on  some 
impossible  ridge.  Millington  was  wounded  —  not  too  badly 
—  and  was  in  hospital  at  the  base.  As  soon  as  he  was  well 
enough  he  was  coming  home  to  be  decorated,  for,  of  course, 
they  were  giving  him  the  Victoria  Cross. 

"  I'm  tremendously  proud  of  him,  aren't  you?  "  Pamela  said. 

They  were,  of  course,  but  they  wished  Pamela  would  go. 
She  did  soon,  because  she  had  an  appointment  for  dinner  with 
an  Australian,  and  another  for  Saturday  with  a  Canadian; 
which  meant  she  wouldn't  be  seeing  them  that  evening.  They 
would  try,  they  said,  to  bear  up,  and  asked  for  news  of  Ronnie, 
who  had  been  in  France  a  week.  Pamela  had  heard  from  him 
that  morning.  She  reported  him  as  well  and  cheery,  then  recol- 
lected her  waiting  Australian  and  fled. 

After  she  had  gone  they  looked  up  the  morning  paper  and 
hunted  for  the  paragraph  they  had  missed  at  breakfast,  while 
Evey  said  irrelevantly  that  she  thought  Pamela  was  rather  over- 
doing the  Colonies.  Helena  agreed,  but  absent-mindedly,  be- 
cause having  found  and  read  the  paragraph  she  was  suddenly 
overwhelmingly  glad  that  Lieutenant  Millington  had  gained  his 
V.  C.  not  for  destroying  but  for  saving  life.  V.  C.'s  gained  for 
killing  a  number  of  the  enemy  she  was  apt  to  find  depressing, 
especially  if  the  number  were  carefully  specified  —  as  it  fre- 
quently was.  It  must  be  horrible,  she  thought,  to  know  just 
how  many  men  you  had  killed  —  even  in  a  good  cause.  The 
mediaeval  woman  in  Helena,  it  seems,  was  a  long  way  out  of 
reach. 

She  pinned  the  paragraph  to  the  top  of  the  letter  she  had 


284  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

just  finished  writing  to  Hilary  and  took  Evey  off  with  her  to 
post  it. 

On  her  way  home  from  the  office  a  day  or  two  later  she 
bought  a  copy  of  the  Monitor  and  found  it  contained  three  short 
poems  over  the  familiar  initials  "  E.  T.  M."  The  poems  star- 
tled her,  because  they  were  no  longer  about  "  the  country  and 
all  that " —  hunting  and  walking  and  games  —  but  about  war 
and  blood  and  sudden  death,  and  bayonet  charges.  .  .  . 

They  were  the  first  poems  Helena  had  ever  seen  Evey  ap- 
preciate unreservedly.  It  was  strange,  because  Evey  —  like 
Helena  and  Vivien  —  detested  books  and  poems  about  the  war. 
But  Edmund  Talbot  Millington  gave  you  the  war  with  a  dif- 
ference. The  biggest  difference  —  as  yet  —  of  any. 

Perhaps  that  explained  it.  Evey  liked  looking  at  the  truth 
—  a  good  habit,  in  Phil's  opinion,  which  he  encouraged,  so  that 
he  was  probably  not  surprised  to  receive  the  Monitor  pages 
containing  the  poems  sandwiched  in  between  the  next  letter 
from  Evey.  All  the  same,  he  told  Evey  not  to  do  anything  so 
risky  again:  the  poems  might  have  got  lost,  or  the  Censor 
might  have  objected  to  them,  which  would  have  come  to  the 
same  thing.  So  Evey  (obeying  Phil's  instructions)  bought  an- 
other copy  of  the  Monitor,  stuck  the  three  poems  neatly  in  an 
exercise  book  with  stickphast  and  kept  an  eye  on  subsequent 
issues. 


There  were  three  more  poems  in  the  next  issue,  terrible, 
haunting,  ironic  things  —  about  generals  poring  over  maps, 
moving  regiments  of  men  hither  and  thither  like  pawns  in  a 
gigantic,  never-ending  game;  and  about  the  men  who  were 
the  pawns  and  about  the  people  who  stayed  at  home.  Most  of 
all,  perhaps,  about  them. 

Barbara  disliked  them  —  not  the  people  who  stayed  at  home, 
but  the  poems.  She  thought  them  clever  and  misguided  —  like 
Stephen's  line-drawing  of  "  War."  It  simply  didn't  do  to 
stress  this  side  of  things.  She  thought  it  plucky  of  Harvey  to 
publish  them;  wondered  why  he  had  and  wished  he  hadn't. 
But  she  went  down  to  Buckingham  Palace  to  see  the  author  of 
them  decorated,  perhaps  with  an  idea  of  talking  to  him  about 
them ;  but  she  had  no  chance  of  that.  He  was  surrounded  by  an 


WASTE  SHORES  285 

admiring  mother  and  sister  who  guarded  him  jealously  from 
contact  with  any  lesser  mortals  after  he  had  shaken  his  sov- 
ereign's hand.  So  Barbara  came  home  and  reported  that  he 
looked  ill,  wore  his  left  arm  in  a  sling  and  no  air  (thank 
Heaven)  of  the  Almighty  Hero. 

Pamela  (who  had  also  been  to  see  the  ceremony)  said  of 
course  not  —  he  was  so  tremendously  modest.  Pamela  wasn't 
in  the  least  concerned  about  the  Monitor  poems,  because  she 
hadn't  seen  them,  and  wouldn't  have  worried  about  them  any- 
how, because  worrying  was  not  a  habit  of  hers. 

From  Essex  Hilary  wrote  that  they  were  the  first  real  poems 
of  the  war,  and  that  he  had  written  to  Millington  to  tell  him 
so.  They  were  so  real,  in  fact,  that  if  you  pricked  them  they 
would  bleed.  Here  at  last  was  war  with  the  romance  off- 
and  it  was  hideous.  So  hideous  that  people  would  not  care  to 
look  at  it,  would  cry  out  for  the  familiar  veils  and  trappings 
that  had  .been  snatched  from  it.  And  because  poetry  had  be- 
come a  thing  divorced  from  life  —  a  thing  extraneous  to  it  — 
we  should  be  told  that  these  poems  in  the  Monitor  were  not 
poems  at  all,  because  poetry  ought  to  recreate  beauty,  and 
these  didn't.  And  the  critics  would  probably  quote  Keats, 
because  when  you  got  them  on  this  topic  the  critics  always  did ! 
The  one  line,  of  course,  which  would  prove  nothing. 

Thus  Hilary,  and  a  good  deal  more  to  the  same  effect,  be- 
cause Hilary  felt  strongly  on  the  subject  and  let  himself  go. 

Then,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  came  home  on  leave;  and 
Evey  went  off  in  a  hurry  to  Streatham,  and  summer  had  a 
sudden  brief  meaning  again. 


On  that  evening  of  homecoming  they  sat  Up  much  too  late 
talking  of  a  thousand  things  —  of  the  Millington  poems,  the 
Millington  V.  C.  (about  which  Hilary  agreed  with  Helena) ; 
of  the  Roscoe  dispatches,  the  "  wonderfulness  "  of  Evey,  the 
Colonials  of  Pamela  Sand,  and  of  Ronnie  in  France.  Of 
Brian's  wire-pulling  and  the  '*  queerness "  of  Vivien  who 
seemed  not  to  see,  or,  seeing,  not  to  mind;  of  Stephen's  ideals, 
Stephen's  wife,  and  of  the  baby  that  was  coming.  (It  was  a 
mistake,  they  agreed,  to  get  born  in  war  time,  but  hoped  the 


286  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

baby  would  never  find  it  out.)  And  presently  they  talked  of 
nothing  save  the  wonder  of  being  together  again.  And,  pres- 
ently, not  even  of  that.  .  .  . 

They  crowded  a  century  of  happiness  into  that  tiny  period 
of  time,  so  gloriously  alive  to  the  present  that  knowledge  of  the 
past  and  thought  of  the  future  ebbed  away  like  a  tide.  They 
spent  their  Saturday  walking  beneath  showery  skies  in  the 
Chilterns,  and  only  got  back  just  in  time  to  prevent  Nelly  and 
Barbara  (who  had  arrived  early  to  find  nobody  at  home)  from 
going  away  again.  Later  on  Brian  came  and  Vivien,  and,  later 
still,  Stephen.  But  they  were  thoughtful  people  and  went 
early  —  even  Evey  who  had  come  up  especially  from  Streatham 
and  would  dearly  have  loved  to  have  stayed  and  slept  on  the 
blue  divan,  or  on  the  floor,  or  a  shelf  —  or  anywhere  so  long 
as  she  could  be  near  these  two  people  she  adored. 

On  Sunday  morning  they  went  to  Kew  and  had  lunch  beneath 
the  trees,  but  there  was  no  sketching.  (The  showery  weather 
bore  the  blame  for  this,  of  course,  which  was  convenient,  if  a 
trifle  unfair  to  the  weather,  that  really  did  make  a  commendable 
effort  to  behave  decently.)  Kew  smelt  of  late  tea-roses  and 
mignonette,  of  China  asters  and  sweet  damp  earth,  and  once, 
magically,  of  wood  violets,  too  well  hidden  to  be  discoverable. 
After  lunch  they  followed  the  gleaming  river  into  Richmond, 
found  a  familiar  shop  for  tea  and  fought  for  a  'bus  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill.  By  the  time  they  reached  home  the  weather 
had  given  up  struggling  and  was  definitely  wet.  But  it  made 
no  difference  to  Helena  and  Hilary  because  they  would  have 
spent  the  time  indoors,  anyway,  and  weather  was  the  last  thing 
in  the  world  to  depress  them. 

And  they  forgot  the  Camp  and  the  coming  morning,  and  the 
absence  of  their  friends  (though  not  so  successfully,  because  of 
Jimmy  and  Arthur  for  whom  the  absence  was  eternal ) .  They 
admired  the  returned  "  Deirdre "  and  were  glad  Hilary  had 
refused  to  sell  her.  And  they  remembered  love  and  the  sweet 
enduring  things  of  love  the  war  had  turned  to  the  wall;  dared, 
even,  to  raise  the  curtain  behind  which  they  had  bundled  so 
much  that  was  beautiful,  that  they  could  not  forget  and  must 
not  (too  often)  remember.  .  .  . 

Two  whole  days  of  perfect  happiness  they  filched  from  nig- 
gardly Time  that  week-end  at  the  close  of  July  —  two  days  that 


WASTE  SHORES  287 

proved  all  the  things  that  had  been  proved  so  often  and  sc  com- 
pletely before  —  that  life  centred  for  each  in  the  other;  that 
apart  they  had  only  their  love  and  faith  to  keep  the  days  pos- 
sible, to  keep  hope  dancing  in  the  wind  of  Circumstance  — 
though  it  danced  high  up,  high  up  and  out  of  reach,  like  Cole- 
ridge's "  one  red  leaf  on  the  topmost  bough." 

But  Monday  came,  because  nothing,  unfortunately,  can  pre- 
vent it  from  coming,  and  in  the  morning  they  walked  down  to 
Liverpool  Street  through  the  faintly  stirring  City  streets,  and 
Helena  stood  on  a  platform  amid  a  sea  of  khaki  and  thought 
what  a  hideous  colour  it  was,  and  how  badly  suited  to  most 
people's  complexion. 

And  the  sun  came  down  into  the  gloomy  station  and  lighted 
her  up  as  she  stood  there,  flushed  from  the  ticket  adventure  and 
smiling  and  cheerful,  because  one  had  to  be  that  —  somehow  — 
to  the  last,  and  must  not  think  of  the  empty  days  that  were 
coming  back  again.  Only,  perhaps,  less  empty  than  before,  be- 
cause of  this  new  memory  that  would  take  a  lot  of  dimming. 
Moreover,  hope  danced  a  little  more  lightly  on  the  top  of  its 
tree  just  now,  because  more  people  than  ever  were  willing  to 
wager  that  the  war  would  be  over  by  Christmas.  When  the 
leaf  danced  most  lightly  and  most  frequently  it  was  because 
some  intrepid  gambler  had  put  it  at  the  Autumn  or  referred 
definitely  to  "  September."  You  might  wonder  why  they  did 
it,  but  you  couldn't  help  feeling  optimistic  when  they  did. 

Presently  (only  much  too  soon  and  tragically  punctually) 
Hilary's  train  steamed  noisily  out  of  the  station,  and  Helena 
stood  and  looked  and  looked  until  there  was  nothing  left  to 
look  at,  when  she  walked  out  of  the  station,  got  on  a  'bus  and 
rode  Chelseawards. 

And  in  Chelsea  there  was  Mark  Antony  —  puzzled  and  hun- 
gry—  and  a  note  from  Pamela  which  said  that  Ronnie  had 
been  wounded  and  was  in  hospital  at  Sidcup.  Pamela  sounded 
cheerful;  but  then  Pamela  always  did,  of  course.  Helena 
hoped  it  was  all  right  but  could  not  help  being  glad  the  news 
had  not  arrived  until  after  Hilary's  departure. 

While  she  ate  her  breakfast  she  snuggled  Mark  Antony  up 
closely  against  her  and  explained  to  him  that  it  was  really  a 
very  clever  thing  to  do  to  get  a  Blighty  wound  after  only  three 
weeks  of  France.  Only  Blighty  wounds,  of  course,  must  not 


288  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

be  too  serious.  And  then,  because  Mark  Antony  was  one  of 
those  cats  who  loved  conversation  and  understood  every  word 
you  said,  she  told  him  he  was  a  lucky  creature  because  he  knew 
nothing  of  war  and  had  not  heard  of  the  Rockefeller  Institute. 

7 

Thoughts  of  Ronnie,  down  there  in  Sidcup  with  his 
"  Blighty  "  wound,  haunted  her  all  day,  however,  and  because 
she  couldn't  get  Pamela  on  the  'phone  she  went  round  to  see 
her  and  collect  any  news  there  was  on  her  way  home. 

Melton,  Pamela's  maid,  let  her  in  and  told  her  she  would 
find  Mrs.  Sand  dressing  in  her  room.  She  was  dining  out. 
There  had  been  no  news  from  Sidcup  during  the  day,  but  a 
letter  had  arrived  for  Mrs.  Sand  five  minutes  ago. 

Helena  went  upstairs  and  found  Pamela  on  the  floor  having 
hysterics  and  being  horribly  sick.  Ronnie,  she  thought,  must 
be  dead,  and  she  steeled  herself  for  the  worst,  seeing  already 
in  imagination  the  fact  as  it  would  look  when  she  wrote  it  out 
for  Hilary.  Jimmy,  Arthur,  Ronnie.  .  .  . 

Pamela,  making  all  that  noise  on  the  floor,  had  not  heard 
her  come  in,  so  that  she  was  able  to  stand  for  a  moment  just 
inside  the  door,  wondering  vaguely  why  life  was  so  hideous, 
and  how  she  was  going  to  tell  Hilary.  Her  eyes  rested  mechan- 
ically on  the  frock  Pamela  had  taken  off  and  flung  over  the  rail 
of  the  old  Queen  Anne  bedstead,  and  on  the  evening  gown  of 
blue  which  Melton  had  laid  out  with  shoes  and  stockings  for 
Pamela  to  glorify.  And  she  lay  there  in  the  midst  of  things, 
forgetful  of  the  Colonial  who  would  have  liked  the  blue  gown 
(and  her  in  it),  and  making  horrible  noises. 

She  sat  up  presently  in  her  camisole  and  petticoat  and  looked 
at  Helena.  Her  hair  was  loosened,  the  tears  ran  down  her  face 
unceasingly.  Her  pretty  mouth,  slightly  open,  emitted  short, 
painful  gasps;  her  weeping  eyes  were  wide  and  scared.  She 
looked  like  a  child  who  has  been  suddenly  and  horribly  fright- 
ened, frightened  almost  to  death. 

And  Helena  could  think  of  nothing  at  all,  save  that  Ronnie 
must  be  dead. 

But  Ronnie  wasn't.  She  got  that  presently  out  of  Pamela. 
Ronnie  was  only  wounded  —  but  most  inartistically.  They  had 


WASTE  SHORES  289 

removed  an  arm  and  a  leg  —  a  right  arm,  so  that  he  would 
never  paint  again  (though  Pamela  didn't  seem  to  have  thought 
of  that) — and  something  had  happened  to  his  face.  The 
nurse  who  had  written  the  letter  Pamela  gave  her  to  read  had 
been  careful,  there,  about  what  she  said.  But  no  matter  what 
she  said,  or  rather,  what  she  omitted  to  say,  the  hideous  truth 
got  through.  Besides,  Pamela  knew  that  it  was  the  men  with 
facial  disfigurements  who  got  sent  to  Sidcup.  Pamela  always 
did  know  things  of  that  sort.  .  .  . 

And  while  Helena  read  the  letter  again  to  see  if  she  could 
make  anything  else  of  it,  Pamela  sank  back  to  her  sickness  and 
hysterics  on  the  floor.  Helena  remembered  how  Hilary  had 
said,  once,  that  Pamela  could  be  sick  whenever  she  liked.  It 
was  absurd,  of  course;  but  all  the  same  it  got  in  the  way,  now, 
of  the  sympathy  she  wanted  to  feel  for  Pamela. 

**  Get  up,"  she  said  presently,  "  that  won't  help." 

She  found  it  difficult  to  be  kind  to  people  who  were  having 
hysterics.  Besides,  at  this  moment,  hysterics  got  most  dread- 
fully in  the  way.  Ronnie  was  down  there  in  Sidcup,  asking  all 
the  time  for  Pamela  —  so  that  nurse  said.  She  put  it  nicely, 
not  wanting  to  hurt  their  feelings.  They  all  thought  it  would 
do  him  good  to  see  Pamela,  but  she  must  be  prepared  for  a  very 
great  change.  Doubtless  she  had  said  that  to  a  lot  of  other 
people  .  .  .  poor  thing,  you  couldn't  possibly  imagine  she 
liked  the  task. 

And  Pamela  lay  here  half-dressed  on  the  floor,  when  she 
ought  to  have  been  on  her  way  to  Sidcup.  Sidcup,  thank 
Heaven,  wasn't  far.  Suppose  it  were  Dover  they  had  taken 
Ronnie  to?  A  scrap  of  vers  libre  from  some  modern  poet  ran, 
zigzagging,  through  her  mind : 

.  .  .  Dover 

Is  such  a  long  way  from  Victoria 

.  .  .  and  your  boy  is  dying, 

Dying  at  Dover. 

Two  hours  to  wait. 

But  Ronnie  was  at  Sidcup.  You  could  get  a  suburban  serv- 
ice to  Sidcup.  And  Ronnie  was  not  dying.  There  was  a  lot  to 
be  thankful  for.  .  .  . 

Presently  Pamela  stopped  being  sick  and  paused  in  her  hys- 


290  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

terics  and  sat  up.  Helena  found  her  another  handkerchief,  shut 
cupboard  doors  and  did  other  odd  things  that  she  thought 
might  restore  Pamela's  self-respect,  which  was  certainly  at  a 
very  low  ebb. 

"  We'd  better  look  up  trains,"  she  said.  "  How  long  before 
you  can  start?  " 

"  Start?  I  can't  start,"  said  Pamela.  "  I'm  ill  ...  Can't 
you  see  I'm  ill?  Anybody  would  be  ill.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,"  Helena  said  gently,  *'  it's  a  dreadful  shock  for 
you.  But  it's  Ronnie  you've  got  to  think  of  ...  that  we've 
all  got  to  think  of.  You  haven't  time  to  be  ill." 

Pamela  said  nothing,  but  the  tears  began  to  flow  down  her 
cheeks  again;  her  mouth  trembled  pathetically. 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't,"  Helena  said,  "  do  try  not  to  cry." 

She  was  suddenly  infinitely  sorry  —  had  not  believed  Pa- 
mela cared  —  like  that.  She  came  and  knelt  down  at  her  side. 

"We're  wasting  time,  dear,  and  it's  precious,  every  minute 
of  it.  Ronnie  wants  you,  and  you  sit  here  .  .  .  crying.  And 
I  let  you.  What  is  the  matter  with  us?  " 

"  It's  no  good,  Lena.  I  can't  go.  I  would  if  I  could  .  .  . 
but  I  just  can't.  I'm  afraid." 

"What  of?" 

Pamela  said  nothing  —  only  hid  her  face  against  Helena's 
shoulder  and  shuddered. 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of,  Pamela?  " 

"  The  hospital  .  .  .  the  awful  sights.  .  .  ." 

"You'll  see  nothing  at  all  but  Ronnie  .  .  .  when  you  get 
there." 

"The  thing  that  was  Ronnie!  " 

"Oh,  Pamela  — don't!" 

"  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't.  .  .  .  That's  how  I'm  made.  If  I 
went  I  should  be  sick  .  .  .  and  how  would  that  help  Ronnie?  " 

"  He  wants  you  —  and  you're  going  to  let  your  nerves  stand 
in  the  way.  Or  is  it  your  stomach?  " 

Pamela  sat  up  suddenly  and  pushed  Helena's  protecting 
shoulder  away. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  you  despise  me.  You're  different. 
I  can't  stand  horrors:  they  make  me  sick.  I'm  not  sick  because 
I  like  it.  You're  never  sick.  You  don't  understand.  You 
don't  .  .  .  see," 


WASTE  SHORES  291 

Helena  got  up  from  the  floor  and  stood  looking  down  at 
Pamela,  who  was  tearing  with  her  teeth  at  one  corner  of  her 
handkerchief.  There  was  genuine  anger  in  action  and  voice, 
for  Helena's  use  of  that  ridiculous  word  "  stomach  "  had  broken 
down  the  bulwark  of  Pamela's  hitherto  impregnable  amiability. 

"  I  don't,"  Helena  said,  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  see  anything 
except  that  you  won't  try  to  conquer  a  bad  attack  of  ... 
nerves  .  .  .  for  Ronnie."  Her  sympathy,  now  that  she  saw 
it  was  herself  Pamela  was  thinking  of,  and  not  Ronnie,  was 
disappearing.  She  galvanised  it  into  action  again,  forcing  the 
hard  note  out  of  her  voice,  trying  to  speak  gently.  "  Listen, 
dear.  Here  is  someone  you  love.  They've  taken  him  away 
from  you  .  .  .  now  they've  given  him  back.  And  you're  go- 
ing to  grumble  because  they've  smashed  him  up  a  bit.  You 
ought  to  be  grateful  ...  on  any  terms.  Just  to  get  him! 
And  think!  They've  spoilt  him  so  much  they'll  never  want  to 
take  him  again.  You  will  be  able  to  keep  him  .  .  .  always 
.  .  .  whatever  wars  they  make." 

Pamela  stopped  biting  at  her  handkerchief  and  sat  there 
squeezing  it  into  a  ball,  the  tears,  unheeded,  falling  down  and 
down  her  face.  It  was  incredible  to  Helena  that  anybody  could 
go  on  crying  like  that  —  almost  automatically,  as  though  the 
reason  for  crying  had  long  been  forgotten  or  didn't  matter. 

"It's  no  good.  I  can't  ...  I  can't  ...  I  can't,"  she 
sobbed. 

Helena  left  her  to  go  and  look  for  an  A  B  C.  She  knew 
where  one  was  to  be  found,  and  coming  back  with  it  sat  down 
to  look  up  trains.  The  blue  enamel  hands  of  the  little  pewter 
clock  on  the  mantelshelf  showed  the  hour  as  twenty  minutes 
past  six.  On  the  floor  Pamela  continued  her  automatic  crying. 

The  ABC  looked  at  first  as  though  it  were  going  to  prove 
useless.  It  told  Helena  that  Sidcup  was  in  Kent  (which  she 
already  knew) ;  that  it  was  twelve  and  a  half  miles  from  Char- 
ing Cross  station  (which  she  didn't)  and  that  you  saved  tup- 
pence if  you  went  from  Cannon  Street;  but  it  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  say  as  to  the  service  of  trains.  She  found  a  table 
of  Sidcup  trains  eventually,  however,  lumped  in  with  a  lot  of 
other  suburban  schedules  at  the  end  of  the  book  (where  she 
ought  to  have  looked  for  them  before) ,  and  ran  a  quick  busi- 
nesslike finger  over  the  columns. 


292  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"There's  a  train  at  7.36,"  she  said,  "from  Charing  Cross. 
You  must  catch  that." 

"  I  can't  possibly.  I  can't  catch  any  train  —  to-night,  any- 
how. I'm  not  fit.  I  shall  be  ill  in  the  train." 

"  I'll  come  with  you.     You'll  be  all  right." 

"  I  shan't.     I  feel  as  though  I  shall  be  ill  for  days." 

"You  mustn't  let  yourself  be  ill.  You  must  forget  your- 
self." She  nearly  added,  "  For  once." 

Pamela  fell  to  tearing  at  the  handkerchief  again  with  her 
teeth. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk.  You  haven't  any  nerves 
.  .  .  and  you're  never  ill.  Besides,  it  isn't  your  husband 
they've  sent  back  to  you  a  horror." 

"  My  dear!  Can't  you  really  stand  a  few  bandages?  Oh, 
you're  ungrateful,  Pamela,  ungrateful.  Things  might  be  so 
much  worse.  .  .  .  Ronnie  might  be  dead."  Something  hot 
boiled  up  within  her,  bubbled  over  uncontrollably.  "  Do  you 
want  me  to  say  I  think  you  wish  he  were?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  say  .  .  .  and  p'raps  it's  true.  It 
would  be  better  for  Ronnie  to  be  dead  than  .  .  .  like  that." 

"  Better  for  you,  I  think  you  mean." 

"  You  can  think  what  you  like.  I  don't  care.  I'm  too  mis- 
erable to  care  about  anything.  Besides,  you  don't  understand 
.  .  .  you  don't  see" 

"You've  told  me  that  before,  and  I've  agreed  with  you. 
Now,  will  you  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  wear  .  .  .  and 
where  I  can  find  things?  You'll  have  to  hurry." 

"  It's  impossible,  Lena.  I  can't  go.  I'm  not  fit.  Anybody 
would  see  that  but  you.  Ronnie'd  understand.  .  .  .  You  can't 
drag  me  there." 

"  I  can  ...  if  necessary." 

"  You're  a  beast,  Lena  —  an  unsympathetic  beast." 

"  I'm  trying  to  be  sympathetic.  You  make  it  difficult.  Do 
let  us  forget  ourselves.  .  .  .  It's  only  Ronnie  who  matters  now, 
not  you  .  .  .  not  me.  Can't  you  do  something  for  him?  Get 
up  from  the  floor  and  try."  She  dragged  a  dark-blue  costume 
out  of  Pamela's  wardrobe,  a  white  blouse  out  of  a  drawer.  Pa- 
mela got  up  and  sat  weakly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  fingering  the 
silk  of  the  evening  gown  she  had  expected  by  now  to  be  wear- 
ing, and  dabbing  at  her  eyes  with  the  wet  ball  that  had  been  a 


WASTE  SHORES  293 

handkerchief,  so  that  her  tears  should  not  fall  upon  its  loveli- 
ness. 

"  She's  thinking,  even  now,"  Helena  thought,  "  of  that  beastly 
Colonial  who's  waiting  for  her  somewhere." 

But  at  least  it  wasn't  of  the  Colonial  she  spoke. 

"  If  it  weren't  Sidcup  I  could  have  stood  it,"  she  said,  "  but 
Sidcup's  awful.  The  people  who  live  there  are  writing  to  the 
papers  about  it  ...  only  the  editors  won't  publish  the  letters. 
They  never  do.  And  it  isn't  only  that.  There  was  a  man  in 
the  tube  the  other  night  .  .  .  one  side  of  his  face  was  all  right. 
You  didn't  know  till  he  turned  round.  .  .  ." 

"Don't!  "  Helena  said,  "don't.  Think  of  cool  clean  linen 
bandages,  and  flowers  in  vases  and  white-capped  nurses." 

Pamela  said  nothing,  only  watched  Helena  pour  cold  water 
into  a  hand  basin  and  sprinkle  eau-de-Cologne  into  it. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you !  "  she  said. 

Pamela  raised  her  head  —  beautifully,  as  she  did  all  things. 

"  I'm  a  sight,"  she  said,  "  don't  look  at  me." 

But  Helena  did  and  decided  that  cold  water  (even  with  eau- 
de-Cologne  in  it)  would  only  make  a  bad  matter  worse. 

"  I'll  get  you  some  warm,"  she  said,  and  went  into  the 
bathroom  to  do  it.  When  she  came  back  Pamela  was  standing 
in  front  of  her  glass,  looking  critically  at  her  reflection,  and 
Helena  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I've  made  myself  a  fright,"  Pamela  said. 

"  Never  mind,  you  can  wear  a  veil,"  Helena  told  her,  pour- 
ing the  hot  water  into  the  cold,  "  and  the  nurses  won't  mind. 
They're  used,  poor  things,  to  seeing  people  with  red  eyes." 

"  You're  being  beastly,  Lena." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be.  I  thought  I  was  only  being  sorry  for 
the  nurses.  Come,  bathe  your  eyes  in  this.  And  hurry  .  .  ." 

While  Pamela  brushed  her  hair  and  got  into  the  blouse  and 
skirt,  Helena  looked  round  for  shoes.  Those  she  pushed  for- 
ward (the  first  she  saw,  for  what  did  it  matter?)  Pamela  re- 
jected with  scorn. 

"  I  can't  wear  those  .  .  .  with  this!  "  she  said. 

Even  in  a  crisis  Pamela  could  not  be  guilty  of  the  mistake 
of  wearing  court  shoes  with  a  tailor-made.  Helena  hunted  for 
lace-up  walking  shoes,  looked  anxiously  at  the  clock  and  went 
out  to  ask  someone  to  get  a  taxi. 


294  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

When  she  returned  Pamela  had  put  on  her  hat  and  was 
hunting  for  a  veil. 

"Ready?  "Helena  said. 

Pamela  nodded.  She  sat  down,  keeping  the  veil  (a  blue 
one)  in  her  hands,  saying  nothing.  The  scared  look  still  lin- 
gered in  her  eyes:  her  mouth  quivered.  Every  now  and  then 
she  seemed  to  shiver. 

Helena  came  to  the  glass  and  rearranged  her  own  hat.  She 
was  feeling  tired  and  her  head  ached.  She  did  not  want  to 
talk;  she  could  think  of  nothing  save  Ronnie  lying  twelve 
miles  away  in  his  white  bed,  a  strange  unfamiliar  Ronnie  who 
wore  bandages  and  would  never  paint  again.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  Melton's  shrill  whistling  drifted  in  to  them,  and 
presently  the  sound  of  changing  motor-gear  and  running  of 
wheels. 

"  Ready?  "  asked  Helena  again. 

Pamela  got  up  and  began  to  tie  the  blue  veil  over  her  hat. 
Helena  looking  at  her  saw  the  tears  running  down  her  freshly 
powdered  face  and  the  stormy  heaving  of  her  breast  beneath 
the  smartly-cut  blue  suit. 

**  Oh,  don't,  don't"  she  said,  "  you  must  be  braver  than  that." 

The  door  opened  and  Melton  came  in  with  a  telegram  which 
she  handed  to  Pamela. 

"  The  taxi  is  here,  madam,"  she  told  Helena,  who  nodded, 
her  mind  on  the  buff  envelope  Pamela  was  shuddering  away 
from. 

"  I  can't,  Lena.  .  .  .  You.     Oh,  Melton,  tie  this  for  me!  " 

Helena  took  the  telegram  and  opened  it,  while  Melton  strove 
with  the  knot  Pamela  had  twisted  in  the  blue  veil. 

"That's  too  tight,  Melton.  It's  pulling  my  hat  out  of 
shape.  .  .  ." 

With  a  white  and  rigid  face  Helena  stood  folding  up  Pamela's 
telegram.  The  shape  of  a  hat!  The  grace  of  a  blue  veil! 
And  this.  .  .  .  !  A  queer  world !  You  hated  it. 

"  Don't  bother  any  more,"  she  said,  "  you  won't  .  .  .  now 
.  .  .  have  to  go" 

"  Not  go  ?  "  said  Pamela     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  matter  any  longer.  Ronnie  died  at  four  this 
afternoon." 

Pamela  shrieked  and  flung  herself,  blue  veil  and  all,  face 


WASTE  SHORES  295 

downwards  upon  her  bed.  It  seemed  quite  a  long  while  before 
Helena  said  to  Melton: 

"  Tell  that  boy  no  answer,  will  you?  And  send  that  taxi 
away." 

Hesitant,  the  girl  looked  across  at  her  mistress. 

"  You  can't  do  anything,"  Helena  said. 

Melton  went,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  fretted  string  of  Hel- 
ena's patience  snapped.  What  right  had  Pamela  to  lie  there 
crying  with  hysterical  relief  because  Fate  had  let  her  off  — 
because  Ronnie  was  dead  ?  Fury  seized  her.  She  went  over  to 
Pamela  and  shook  her  savagely  by  the  arm,  hating  her. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  she  said,  "  stop  making  that  hideous 
noise.  Stop  it,  I  say,  stop  it!  " 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


PAMELA,  of  course,  made  a  charming  widow.  She  con- 
sidered the  costume  picturesque,  and  certainly  black  set 
off  to  perfection  her  wonderful  skin  and  hair.  Whatever 
shock  she  had  suffered  from  the  suddenness  of  Ronnie's  death 
had  been  definitely  counteracted  by  the  enormity  of  the  relief 
which  overtook  her  when  she  learnt  that  she  was  not  to  be  tied 
for  the  rest  of  her  life  to  a  human  wreck.  (That,  now,  was  how 
she  thought  of  Ronnie,  poor  boy,  though  nobody  else  ever 
could.)  Death  here,  for  once,  was  very  kind  —  kind  to  both  of 
them.  Pamela  had  not  sufficient  imagination  ever  to  suffer 
deeply  (Hilary  had  been  right  there,  all  along)  and  Ronnie 
had  died  (quite  decently  from  sudden  collapse)  before  he 
found  her  out.  Now,  he  would  never  know  what  Hilary,  at 
least,  had  always  known.  Or  if  he  did  it  wouldn't  matter. 
These  things  don't  —  when  you  are  dead. 

But  being  dead  mattered  —  mattered  horribly.  If  you  were 
young.  .  .  . 

So  Hilary  wrote  to  Helena  in  a  letter  that  it  cut  her  to  the 
soul  to  read  —  an  elegy  of  youth  and  promise,  passionately  bit- 
ter. After  that,  nothing  more  at  all  for  a  week. 

And  Helena  suffered  —  not  only  through  but  with  him. 
Horrible  days  of  recollection  came  to  her,  stabbed  with 
thoughts  of  things  done  and  said  —  things  written  in  the  closed 
book  of  Yesterday.  Scraps  of  conversation,  recollections  of 
walks,  things  they  had  done  and  seen  together;  the  stretched- 
out  Sussex  country;  the  sun  startlingly  red  behind  a  dark  plan- 
tation. And  thoughts  of  Richmond.  .  .  .  Half-lights  and  sil- 
houettes, clouds  in  a  hurry  and  a  tempestuous  river  running 
high.  .  .  .  And  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  traffic  and  noise 
again:  the  winding  street  and  the  Richmond  tea-shops.  She 
remembered  the  look  of  them  as  she  had  seen  them  first  .  . 
uncurtained,  making,  one  after  the  other,  bright  patches  of 

298 


WASTE  SHORES  297 

colour  in  a  dusky  thoroughfare.  Life  as  she  had  sjeen  it 
through  those  unshuttered  windows  seemed  a  thing  of  lanterns, 
cushions  and  the  firelight  ...  of  happy  couples  who  laughed 
and  talked  .  .  .  and  music.  Walking  there  on  the  slope  of  the 
hill  she  had  caught  no  hint  at  all  of  this  time  when,  with  so 
much  else,  this  little  town  of  tea-shops  should  be  bundled  away 
behind  a  heavy  curtain  she  could  not  bear  to  lift. 

And  something  nearer  —  something  infinitely  more  intimate 
and  tender  —  the  memory  (and  so  clear  and  vivid  it  might  have 
been  yesterday)  of  Hilary  here  in  this  room,  holding  her  in  his 
arms,  and  saying  that  death  was  a  thing  which  happened  to 
other  people.  To-day,  in  this  war-ridden  world,  you  simply 
could  not  bear  to  remember  a  thing  like  that.  Death  strode 
abroad  so  fast  and  furious,  came  so  close,  you  shivered  and 
held  your  breath.  For  what  touched  other  people  you  knew 
now  could  touch  you  —  and  worse,  far  worse,  could  touch  the 
people  you  loved.  Jimmy,  Arthur,  Ronnie.  ...  So  close  as 
all  that  had  death  come. 

But  here  Helena  would  get  up  and  drag  Evey  out  into  the 
streets  to  walk  and  talk  —  so  that  she  should  not  think.  Be- 
cause Barbara  was  right:  it  simply  didn't  "do"  to  think  of 
things  like  that.  You  had  to  grit  your  teeth  and  bear  it.  And 
you  had  to  go  on  being  grateful  for  Essex,  and  to  go  on  be- 
lieving that  the  war,  soon,  was  coming  to  an  end. 

Not  that  in  the  summer  of  nineteen-fifteen  it  looked  like  do- 
ing anything  of  the  sort.  Those  cheerful  idiots  with  their 
bets  must  be  feeling  rather  blue.  They  had  played  her  false, 
as  she  might  have  known  they  would,  for  none  of  them  knew 
anything  —  not  even  Mr.  Bletchington,  whose  outrageous 
prophecies  disfigured  the  hoardings  and  the  sides  of  'buses. 
Nothing  that  happened  —  out  there  in  the  war  zone  or  here  at 
home  —  seemed  to  make  any  difference  at  all.  Dully,  incred- 
ibly, it  went  on.  You  could  not,  these  days,  imagine  the  world 
without  the  war.  You  could  not,  even,  imagine  a  time  when  it 
had  not  been.  When  someone  said  "  Before  the  war "  you 
stared  at  him  (or  at  her:  somehow  it  was  usually  feminine  gen- 
der ! )  as  at  some  strange  prehistoric  being  who  knew  of  things 
you  could  only  guess  at  dimly.  You  wondered  what  Mr. 
Bletchington  and  the  other  men  with  papers  to  fill  found,  before 
the  war,  to  write  about. 


298  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

War  was  a  gamble,  with  good  luck  jostling  the  bad  and  none 
good  enough  or  bad  enough,  so  far,  to  make  any  difference 
either  way.  Warsaw  had  fallen  at  the  beginning  of  August. 
In  Gallipoli  there  had  been  a  new  landing  at  Suvla  Bay  and 
in  the  Gulf  of  Riga  a  Russian  naval  victory  (so  the  papers 
said).  And  in  England  at  the  beginning  of  September  there 
had  been  another  Zeppelin  raid  on  London,  and  concert  tickets 
had  *'  Full  moon  "  printed  at  the  bottom  of  them  because  of  the 
prudent  souls  who  never  went  out  o'nights  unless  you  had  defi- 
nite information  of  this  sort  to  offer  them.  But  Helena  and 
Evey  were  not  prudent  souls  and  went  out  when  they  liked. 
Neither  of  them  had  time  to  worry  about  Zeppelin  raids  be- 
cause at  the  beginning  of  September  men  were  being  hurried 
out  of  their  camps  into  France  and  Salonika.  The  word  "  Zep- 
pelin "  did  not  frighten  Helena :  the  word  "  draft "  did. 

But  though  (after  that  one  week  following  Ronnie's  death) 
Hilary  wrote  of  many  things,  he  had  nothing  to  say  about 
**  drafts."  He  wrote  (humorously)  of  the  sketch  he  had  made 
of  a  sergeant  and  (still  humorously)  of  the  ten  shillings  the 
sergeant  had  offered  him  in  respect  of  it.  (The  sergeant,  Hel- 
ena gathered,  was  a  "  good  sort  "  if  you  could  overlook  his  bad 
puns  on  Hilary's  surname  and  his  own  army  rank.)  Hilary 
wrote,  too,  of  rain  and  route  marches  and  of  mud;  of  James 
Stephens's  Here  are  Ladies  and  May  Sinclair's  Divine  Fire, 
both  of  which  books  Helena  had  recently  sent  down  to  him. 
And  presently,  at  the  end  of  September,  that  he  was  coming 
home  on  his  second  leave. 


Helena  was  happy  enough  with  that  one  thought  drowning  all 
the  rest,  until  the  Thursday  evening  when  Pamela  looked  in  en 
route  for  the  Savoy,  and  wondered  amiably  where  Hilary  was 
"going."  Pamela  was  always  amiable:  it  was  a  virtue  even 
Hilary  had  granted  her. 

"  Going?  "  asked  Helena. 

"  I  mean,  does  he  think  it'll  be  France  or  Salonika?  It's  one 
or  the  other  just  now,  isn't  it?  " 

Helena  said  nothing,  because  it  was  too  terrific  to  have  your 
half-drowned  thoughts  resuscitated  with  such  painful  thorough- 


WASTE  SHORES  299 

ness.  It  wasn't  likely  that  she  would  find  anything  to  say. 
But  Evey  did.  She  said  sharply, 

"  Oh  shut  up,  Pam.  Why  should  he  be  going  anywhere? 
He'd  have  said  if  he  were.  Besides,  they  can't  send  everyone." 

Pamela  said,  "  Oh  well,  it  just  occurred  to  me,  you  know," 
pulling  on  her  gloves  and  preparing  to  depart.  Her  amiability 
was  unimpaired,  her  delicate  beauty  gleamed  like  a  pink  rose 
from  a  tall  black  vase,  and  she  carried  it  out  into  the  uncertain 
September  day  and  lighted  up  the  street.  Outside,  people 
turned  on  the  Embankment  to  look  at  her  because  she  was 
lovely  in  her  black  clothes,  and  inside,  in  Hilary's  blue  and 
silver  room,  Evey  swore  mildly  because  she  was  stupid. 

"  I  wish  she'd  marry  one  of  the  Colonials  and  that  he'd  haul 
her  off  to  the  backwoods  somewhere!  " 

'I  Why?" 

"  Oh  because  it  would  make  her  really  uncomfortable.  You 
might  be  able  to  like  her  better  that  way.  Floors  and  babies 
to  wash  might  make  her  human.  Babies  especially.  I'd  like  it 
to  be  a  Colonial  who  insisted  on  a  baby  every  year.  Concep- 
tion at  the  point  of  the  sword,  sort  of  thing.  I'm  becoming 
vulgar." 

"  You  are,"  Helena  said,  but  she  laughed. 

Which  was  what  Evey  wanted,  so  she  thought  her  vulgarity 
had  justified  itself. 


Helena  went  down  the  next  evening  to  meet  Hilary  at  Liv- 
erpool Street  station,  and  one  look  at  his  face  reassured  her. 
Nothing  sinister  lurked  behind  this  welcome  sight  of  him. 
They  might  take  their  days  and  be  happy  in  them. 

At  Charing  Cross  they  picked  up  Evey  and  Estelle,  because 
Helena  had  managed  to  get  seats  at  the  Duke  of  York's  for  the 
Manchester  Players  in  Hindle  Wakes,  and  Hilary  had  agreed 
that  to  make  a  party  of  it  would  be  delightful.  So  four  light 
hearts  and  a  big  box  of  chocolates  went  to  the  Duke  of  York's 
and  sat  down  in  the  Upper  Circle,  because  no  one  had 
"  dressed." 

All  four  of  them  were  tremendously  happy  and  excited, 
because  they  had  forgotten  the  war  and  were  conscious  of  noth- 


300  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

ing  save  that  Stanley  Houghton  had  written  a  brilliant  play, 
that  they  were  seeing  it  together,  and  that  Miss  Horniman's 
Company  was  a  histrionic  delight  that  made  you,  as  Evey  said 
later,  almost  resigned  to  the  idea  of  Manchester  as  a  dwelling- 
place.  And  in  the  intervals  they  talked  about  the  play  and 
listened  to  the  old  lady  in  front  telling  her  companion  that  it 
was  "  very  clever  and  very  dangerous,  and,  you  could  mark  her 
words,  it  would  do  a  lot  of  harm."  They  were  really  interested 
in  her  point  of  view  and  were  almost  sorry  when  the  curtain 
went  up  again. 

At  the  end  of  the  play  they  bundled  Evey  and  Estelle  into  a 
taxi,  because  Estelle  liked  taxis  and  deserted  the  beloved  omni- 
bus in  their  favour  whenever  she  got  the  chance.  She  was  fond 
of  Hilary  (among  other  reasons)  because  he  always  remem- 
bered things  of  this  sort. 

With  the  departure  of  the  Sisters  Charming,  Helena  and  Hil- 
ary walked  through  to  Soho,  and  after  a  hunt  discovered  a 
place  where  they  could  have  supper,  after  which  they  rode 
home  to  Chelsea  on  the  front  seat  of  the  inevitable  (and  last) 
'bus,  sitting  close.  .  .  . 

Above,  the  harvest  moon  hung  low  in  a  cloudy  wind-harried 
sky,  looking  like  a  copper  plate  somewhat  battered  at  the  edges 
—  as  if,  thought  Helena,  it  no  more  than  all  else  had  wholly 
escaped  damage  by  the  war. 

And  at  home  there  was  an  ecstatic  Mark  Antony,  and  a  letter 
for  Helena  in  Cissie  Ellingham's  handwriting,  bearing  the  Lon- 
don postmark. 


Cissie  wrote  from  the  Hotel  Russell,  where,  it  appeared,  she 
was  staying  with  her  mother.  She  had  come  to  London  because 
she  wanted  to  see  Walter,  who  was  in  an  improvised  hospital 
for  officers  in  Bethnal  Green.  Cissie  didn't  know  why  Bethnal 
Green,  and  Helena  didn't  care.  It  was  enough  to  know  that 
Walter  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones:  that  he  wasn't  wounded  but 
had  merely  managed  to  fall  out  of  the  line  with  fever  as  his 
regiment  was  marching  up  to  go  over  the  top.  If  you  counted 
the  measles  for  which  he  had  arrived  just  in  time  at  Havre,  then 
Walter's  luck  had  certainly  been  phenomenal. 


WASTE  SHORES  301 

Cissie  wrote  that  she  had  seen  him  that  morning.  Helena 
gathered  that  Walter's  condition,  happily,  had  not  alarmed  her 
but  that  the  condition  of  Bethnal  Green  had.  She  thought  it 
a  shame  poor  Walter  should  have  been  sent  there,  but  Helena 
had  no  pity  for  Walter  on  this  score.  The  nastiest  bit  of  Lon- 
don, she  considered,  was  better  just  now  than  France. 

She  read  aloud  to  Hilary  what  Cissie  had  written. 

.  .  .  He  particularly  wants  to  see  you,  but  they're  awfully 
mean  with  their  visiting  hours.  You'll  have  to  go  between 
three  and  half-past  four.  All  that  way,  too.  And  I  daresay 
they'll  turn  you  out  after  half  an  hour,  as  they  did  mother 
and  me  —  and  you  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  turn  mother  out 
when  once  she  has  got  in.  Still  they  did  it.  Walter,  they 
say,  gets  a  temperature  if  he  talks  too  much.  But  it  was 
mother  who  did  the  talking,  so  I  think  they  might  have  let  me 
stay.  .  .  .  Do  be  an  angel,  Lena,  and  go  to-morrow  after- 
noon, and  I'll  try  to  persuade  mother  to  let  me  go  alone 
(though  of  course  she  won't)  and  you  can  invite  me  home  to 
tea.  So  if  you  meet  us  on  the  stairs  remember  she  doesn't 
know  anything  about  you:  nobody  in  Rattenby  does.  Of 
course  she  may  think  things :  but  that  doesn't  matter.  But  do 
remember,  dear,  that  you  are  supposed  to  be  very  busy  help- 
ing some  public  man.  ( You  can  say  Mr.  Bletchington  if  you 
like:  I  should  think  that  would  make  a  good  impression  on 
mother.)  Anyway,  you're  a  patriotic  person,  doing  war 
work.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  it,  but  Hilary  listened  quite  pa- 
tiently to  the  end.  He  did  not  mind  that  Cissie's  letters  ram- 
bled, because  they  were  kind  and  friendly.  Besides,  he  was  not 
likely  to  forget  how  grateful  they  had  been,  in  those  early  days, 
to  get  them. 

"  Let's  go  to-morrow,"  he  said.  . 

"  All  right.  And  what  happens  if  we  meet  Mrs.  Ellingham 
on  the  stairs?  " 

Hilary  considered.     "  Never  heard  of  me,  has  she?  " 

"  She  hasn't  heard  of  anyone,  apparently,  except  the  busy 
public  man  I'm  'helping'!  "  She  laughed. 

"  Think  I'd  do  for  the  '  busy  public  man  '?  " 


302  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

She  eyed  his  uniform  and  laughed  again. 

"  I  see,"  said  Hilary,  "  not  in  these!  Oh  well,  we'll  chance 
it.  I  can  be  '  a  friend  '!  And  anyway,  what  does  Mrs.  Elling- 
ham  matter?  Damn  Mrs.  Ellingham,  if  it  comes  to  that!  " 

"Willingly!  "  Helena  said,  remembering  ancient  grudges. 

Besides,  she  would  have  damned  the  whole  world  to-night, 
quite  cheerfully,  for  the  sight  of  Hilary  sprawling  there  by 
the  fire  with  a  light  in  his  eyes. 

She  went  over  to  him,  slipped  down  on  the  rug  and  leaned 
her  head  on  his  knee. 

"Happy?  "  he  said. 

"  Happy!  " 

"Isn't  that  the  word?" 

"  There  are  no  words.  . 


They  slept  late  next  morning  and  the  clock  was  striking  nine 
when  Helena  slipped  out  of  bed  and  looked  at  the  day,  which 
was  doubtful.  And  while  she  was  looking  at  it  Hilary  sat  bolt 
upright  in  bed  and  looked  at  her. 

"Good  lord!  "  he  said.  "That  beastly  office!  You'll  be 
late." 

Helena  turned  away  from  the  doubtful  day  and  shook  her 
head. 

"  Oh,  I  manage  better  than  that.  There's  going  to  be  no 
office  to-day  —  though  it  really  isn't  a  bit  *  beastly  '  you  know." 

"  It  is,"  Hilary  said,  "  when  it  gets  in  the  way." 

Helena  sighed,  thinking  that  it  did  that  so  seldom.  What  it 
mostly  did  was  to  fill  up  a  gap  —  a  big  one. 

"  I've  turned  Miss  Helstone  on,"  she  explained.  "  A  little 
work  for  once  won't  hurt  her,  and  Mr.  B.  won't  bother  her. 
He's  making  a  recruiting  speech  in  Glasgow." 

Breakfast  was  a  leisurely  and  happy  meal,  for  they  had  con- 
trived, both  of  them,  to  staunch  their  wounds,  and  their  courage 
and  laughter  had  blunted  the  sword  of  the  Terribly  Familiar, 
so  that  at  the  moment  it  could  not  hurt  them  at  all.  They  ate 
their  porridge  and  bacon  in  high  spirits,  and  Hilary  blessed 
the  name  of  Miss  Helstone  and  that  of  the  woman  whose  "  day  " 
it  was,  to  whom  they  left  the  business  of  clearing  away  and 


WASTE  SHORES  303 

washing  up,  and  went  out  to  buy  things.  They  climbed  on  a 
'bus  and  went  up  to  Liberty's  because  when  you  were  vague  like 
that  and  only  wanted  to  "  buy  things  "  and  not  any  special  defi- 
nite article,  Liberty's  was  the  best  place.  So  they  went  there 
and  found  a  great  deal  to  admire,  and  Hilary  bought  Helena  a 
piece  of  Chinese  silk  for  a  wrap,  beautifully  worked  in  blues 
and  golds  (which  were  Helena's  colours)  and  Helena  bought 
for  herself  a  hand-made  Dorothy  bag  of  leather  that  smelt  as 
good  as  it  looked.  For  the  studio  Hilary  bought  a  pewter  vase 
that  he  liked  the  shape  of,  some  gorgeously  coloured  cushions 
and  a  black-and-silver  tuffit  that  no  one  would  sit  on  but  Mark 
Antony  —  who  would  spoil  it.  They  took  the  handbag  with 
them  and  the  pewter  vase,  and,  because  the  day  was  chilly, 
Hilary  made  Helena  wear  the  Chinese  silk  —  though  that  was 
less  the  reason,  perhaps,  than  the  excuse.  And  because  he 
wanted  to  be  able  to  look  at  his  "  tuffit  "  and  cushions  again  be- 
fore he  went  back  to  camp,  the  Liberty  people  promised  to  send 
them  along  that  day  without  fail.  Shop  people  were  obliging 
to  folk  in  uniform  —  even  the  uniform  of  a  private.  It  was  an 
item  that  Helena  scored  heavily  to  their  credit  as  she  walked 
across  with  Hilary  to  the  Trocadero  Grill  Room  for  lunch. 

Pamela  was  having  lunch  there,  too,  they  found,  with  a 
young  flight  officer,  and  she  tried  not  to  see  them  because  it  was 
always  so  awkward  speaking  to  a  private  when  you  were  with 
an  officer.  But  Helena  looked  beautiful  in  her  new  wrap: 
she  counteracted  the  painful  shoddiness  of  Hilary's  khaki  attire 
and  was  thoroughly  worth  the  smile  and  raised  hand  of  recog- 
nition Pamela  finally  decided  to  bestow  on  them. 

"  Such  a  queer  person,  the  young  man  in  uniform,"  she  ex- 
plained to  the  youth  who  was  paying  for  her  lunch.  "Yes, 
an  artist.  A  friend  of  poor  Ronnie's,  of  course.  (By  the  way, 
you  must  come  along  and  see  Ronnie's  pictures  before  I  give 
up  the  house.  We  must  arrange  an  evening.)  Oh  no,  Hilary 
Sargent's  things  aren't  a  bit  like  his.  Ronnie  would  have  it 
they  were  miles  better.  They  really  are  rather  distinctive. 
Don't  you  know  them?  Landscapes  —  misty  things,  wet 
nights,  fogs,  moonlight  and  clouds.  Horribly  creepy.  And  he 
does  portraits.  Ronnie  used  to  say  if  he'd  only  stick  to  por- 
traits he'd  make  a  fortune.  But  he  won't.  Says  fashionable 
women  bore  him.  He's  got  the  queerest  ideas  about  most 


304  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

things.  Talks  like  a  socialist,  though  he  can't  be,  because  he's 
quite  comfortably  off  and  socialists  never  are,  are  they?  He 
objects  to  taking  a  commission.  I  don't  know  why.  Some- 
thing I  can't  understand  about  the  caste  of  the  Army.  I  sup- 
pose he  looks  as  well  as  anybody  in  the  ranker's  uniform.  But 
I  really  don't  admire  the  cut,  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  rather  not,"  said  the  youth  who  was  paying  for  her 
lunch.  "  Awfully  pretty  girl,  though.  His  wife?  " 

"  Well  .  .  .  not  exactly.  There's  a  husband  in  the  way  who 
won't  budge.  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  Ronnie  knew,  and 
would  always  have  it  they  were  justified.  After  all,  I  suppose, 
people's  morals  are  their  own  affair,  aren't  they?  " 

"  What?     Oh,  rather.     I  say,  what  wine  will  you  have?  " 

Hilary  and  Helena  meanwhile  had  found  a  corner  table. 
Hilary  ordered  hors  d'oeuvres  and  Helena  said  she  was  quite 
sure  Pamela  was  apologising  for  them  to  her  young  officer 
friend. 

"Not  for  you,"  Hilary  said.  "You  look  lovely.  It's  me 
she's  apologising  for  —  or,  rather,  His  Majesty's  uniform." 

"  You  can't  apologise  for  the  contractor  who's  responsible 
for  it,"  Helena  said,  "  anyway.  He's  past  praying  for.  But 
why  don't  you  buy  one  of  your  own?  " 

"Want  me  to?" 

"  Not  particularly.     Only  —  wouldn't  you  feel  better  in  it?  " 

"  Suppose  I  should.  But  .  .  .  well,  I  don't  want  to  wear 
anything  .  .  .  different,  somehow." 

"  Then  don't.     I  don't  care  what  you  wear." 

She  looked  at  him  over  the  hors  d'aeuvres,  and  thought  that 
nothing  —  not  this  vile  colour  and  the  viler  cut  of  his  uniform 
—  could  coarsen  him  or  strip  him  of  the  grace  and  charm  that 
was  a  part  of  him.  His  face  was  still  pale,  tanned  scarcely  at 
all  by  the  summer  sun  (what  there  had  been  of  it).  His  hair 
was  shorter,  but  even  the  scissors  had  not  been  able  to  wrestle 
very  successfully  with  the  wavy  thicknesses  of  it,  and  his  head 
was  very  far  from  being  the  cropped  close  "  soldier's  "  head 
it  ought  perhaps  to  have  been.  But  to-day  the  contrast  which 
the  intractable  wave  of  Hilary's  hair  presented  with  the  per- 
fect straightness  of  his  black  eyelashes  struck  Helena  afresh 
as  she  looked  at  him.  She  looked  at  him  so  long,  in  fact, 
that  she  forgot  her  lunch  and  the  waiter  thought  (as  they 


WASTE  SHORES  305 

always  do)  that  she  had  finished  and  took  her  plate  away. 
And  though  Hilary  laughed  at  her  face  of  surprised  dismay 
he  called  the  man  back,  because  it  is,  after  all,  rather  a 
tragedy  to  have  your  hors  cTcevres  removed  before  you  have 
finished  with  them.  The  waiter  seemed  to  think  they  were 
rather  mad.  He  was  an  Englishman  and  wore  that  air  of 
tired  contempt  for  the  hungry  that  is  the  dominant  char- 
acteristic of  the  English  waiter.  But  Hilary  and  Helena 
thought  a  waiter's  a  dull  enough  life  and  made  him  very 
kindly  welcome  to  any  little  enlivenment  he  might  be  able  to 
get  out  of  them. 

They  were  a  long  time  over  their  lunch  —  chiefly  because  a 
private's  uniform  these  days  was  misleading,  and  the  waiter 
being  uncertain  of  his  tip  spent  rather  too  much  time  trying 
to  square  Hilary's  manner  with  his  uniform.  But  his  leisure- 
liness  disturbed  neither  Hilary  nor  Helena.  They  liked  sitting 
there  eating  their  nice  food  and  listening  to  the  music,  and  look- 
ing at  each  other  and  talking.  They  were  in  no  hurry  at  all. 
It  was  still  barely  two  o'clock  and  they  had  not  to  be  at  the 
hospital  until  three.  It  wouldn't  matter  either  if  they  were 
later.  All  the  better,  perhaps,  because  they  might  then  escape 
Mrs.  Ellingham. 

6 

An  eastward  bound  'bus  took  them  down  to  Cambridge 
Heath  station  with  the  Saturday  afternoon  crowd,  and  as  they 
sat  on  the  back  seat  Hilary  was  able  to  take  out  his  pewter  vase 
and  look  at  it  again.  It  was  one  way  of  avoiding  the  sight  of 
Bethnal  Green,  which  (without  knowing  anything  of  the 
"  Brady  Street  area  ")  they  resented  en  bloc.  Hilary  thought 
the  Zeppelins  here  might  do  a  very  good  work  if  you  could 
only  manage  somehow  to  clear  out  the  people  while  they  did  it. 
Helena  agreed,  and  was  reminded  of  the  girl  in  the  "  Litlle 
Restaurant  of  the  Kindly  Heart "  who  had  wanted  to  burn 
London  down. 

"  Down  here  it  seems  almost  criminal  to  prevent  her," 
Hilary  said,  twisting  his  lovely  vase  in  his  hands.  He  liked  it 
better  out  of  doors  (even  here  in  the  Belhnal  Green  Road)  than 
he  had  done  in  the  Regent  Street  shop,  and  he  pointed  out  to 
Helena  the  one  special  curve  which  made  the  shape  so  beautiful. 


306  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

It  was  a  long  while  before  he  could  persuade  himself  to  wrap 
it  up  again  and  go  back  to  the  task  of  trying  not  to  look  at  the 
sordid  squalor  of  the  No.  6  'bus  route. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  past  three  when  they  walked  up  the 
stairs  of  the  improvised  hospital  with  their  arms  full  of  fruit 
and  roses,  and  were  just  in  time  to  meet  Mrs.  Ellingham  com- 
ing down. 

7 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Helena,  "  this  is  a  very  great 
pleasure." 

Helena  simulated  an  admirable  surprise  (she  had  grown 
clever  at  this  sort  of  thing)  and  introduced  Hilary.  Mary  El- 
lingham looked  at  him  standing  there  with  his  arms  full  of 
flowers  and  his  beautiful  pewter  vase  (very  badly  wrapped  up) ; 
and  those  keen  eyes  of  hers  seemed  to  find,  as  others  had  done 
before  her,  that  his  pale  distinguished  face  counteracted  the 
very  worst  you  could  say  of  his  shoddy  uniform.  At  any  rate, 
she  smiled  and  was  immediately  amiable  to  its  owner. 

"  Isn't  this  a  dreadful  part  of  the  world,  Mr.  Sargent?  Of 
course,  I  know  the  poor  must  live  somewhere,  but,  really,  some- 
one ought  to  do  something.  .  .  .  What  a  lovely  wrap,  Helena 
dear,  and  how  well  you  are  looking !  Your  hard  work  must  be 
suiting  you." 

Helena  said  it  was. 

"And  when  are  you  coming  back  to  your  delightful  house? 
Really,  it's  a  shame  to  have  it  muffled  up  in  canvas  and  holland. 
I  do  hope  your  old  housekeeper  and  her  husband  look  after 
things.  I'm  sure  we  shall  all  be  very  glad  to  see  you  again 
when  this  dreadful  war  is  over.  Not,  of  course,  that  we  saw 
anything  at  all  of  Mr.  Courtney  before  he  went  to  France  (so 
fine  of  him,  my  dear,  I  thought! ) .  After  his  return  from  Amer- 
ica he  was  quite  a  recluse.  Oh  yes,  I  assure  you.  He  must 
have  missed  you  terribly.  Do  let  us  hope  the  Germans  will 
soon  be  beaten,  so  that  we  can  all  settle  down  again  in  the  old 
way.  Of  course  we're  going  to  win,  aren't  we,  Mr.  Sargent?  " 

"  Sure  to,"  Hilary  said,  "  England  always  does,  you  know." 

"  Of  course.  I'm  not  really  alarmed,  only  it's  so  very  sad 
for  everybody.  For  you  young  people  especially.  I'm  sure  I 
really  dread  Walter's  getting  well  enough  to  go  out  again. 


WASTE  SHORES  307 

Cissie  worries  herself  to  a  shadow  about  him,  the  poor  child! 
And  Walter  was  getting  on  so  well  in  the  Bank:  I'm  sure  his 
father  has  been  most  kind." 

"  How  w  Walter?  "  Helena  managed  to  get  in  here. 

"  Oh,  improving  wonderfully.  His  constitution,  the  doctors 
say,  is  extraordinary.  Really,  you  know,  one  almost  wishes  it 
were  not.  Things,  I  hear,  are  impending  in  France:  I  hope 
they  won't  find  him  well  enough  to  go  out  again  yet  awhile. 
I'm  sure  you  understand  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Sargent." 

Mr.  Sargent  said  that  he  did  and  that  it  was  very  natural, 
or  something  to  that  effect.  He  found  Mrs.  Ellingham's  em- 
phatic amiability  a  trifle  overpowering. 

"  I  think  the  world  is  terribly  sad,"  she  went  on,  "  Really, 
the  war  has  complicated  things  dreadfully  .  .  .  especially  for 
mothers  with  daughters,  Mr.  Sargent.  I  have  seven,  you  know. 
A  family  of  seven  girls  is  really  a  great  tragedy,  especially  now 
that  so  few  women  will  be  able  to  get  married,  and  I  think  all 
young  people  are  better  married.  I'm  old-fashioned  enough  to 
believe  in  youthful  marriages,  though  these  war  weddings  are 
really  very  imprudent,  don't  you  think,  Mr.  Sargent?  " 

Hilary  did.  He  was  in  the  middle  of  trying  to  say  so  when 
a  white-clad  nurse  hurried  up  to  them  and  said  they  must  not 
stand  talking  on  the  staircase. 

"  Who  is  it  that  you  want  to  see?  "  she  asked.  "  You  are 
making  a  great  deal  of  noise." 

They  said  they  were  sorry  and  that  they  had  come  to  see 
Lieutenant  Morden  who  was  in  Alexandra  Ward. 

"But  Lieutenant  Morden  has  one  visitor  with  him  now. 
Only  one  of  you  can  go  up  until  she  comes  down." 

"  Then  you  go,  Helena  dear;"  Mrs.  Ellingham  said.  "  I've 
just  come  down,  nurse.  Perhaps  you'll  come  and  talk  to  me  in 
the  hall,  Mr.  Sargent,  until  Cissie  joins  us." 

So  Helena  followed  the  white-clad  nurse  up  the  staircase  and 
along  a  passage,  and  Hilary  went  down  into  the  hall  with  Mrs. 
Ellingham,  who  asked  him  when  he  thought  the  war  was  go- 
ing to  end  and  if  he  believed  these  rumours  about  Russia.  Of 
course  people  did  say  such  dreadful  things  about  the  Tsar 
before  the  war,  but  after  all  he  was  our  ally  and  you  couldn't 
really  believe,  could  you,  that  he  secretly  favoured  the  Ger- 
mans? 


308  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

Hilary  said  he»could  believe  anything  about  the  Tsar  and 
wished  Cissie  would  hurry  up  and  come  down. 

8 

Walter,  always  a  pretty  boy,  looked  prettier  than  ever  this 
afternoon,  because  there  was  a  flush  on  his  cheekbones  and  his 
eyes  were  more  than  usually  bright. 

"  You  do  look  nice,  all  of  you,"  Helena  said,  glancing  from 
him  to  the  rest  of  the  little  Ward.  She  hadn't  expected  it  to 
look  like  this.  Walter  laughed. 

"We're  all  medicals,"  he  said,  "we  don't  shock  anybody. 
We  leave  that  to  the  surgicals." 

"  He's  not  to  be  excited,  please,"  said  the  Staff  Nurse,  coming 
up  just  then.  She  had  a  kind  pale  face  and  didn't  look  as 
though  she  had  varicose  veins,  though  Olive  would  have  sworn 
she  must  have.  "  No,  I  don't  think  the  grapes  will  hurt  him 
at  all." 

"  Do  smell  my  flowers,  nurse,"  Walter  begged.  "  And 
don't  glare  at  them  like  that  —  you'll  wither  them." 

Staff  unbent  and  smiled  inclusively  upon  the  flowers,  their 
recipient,  and  Helena  who  had  brought  them. 

**  This  is  my  sister,  nurse.     Do  say  you  think  I'm  like  her." 

Staff  considered. 

"  You  aren't  ...  a  scrap,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can  quite  under- 
stand why  you  want  me  to  say  so.  Now,  please,  not  too  much 
talking." 

Staff  moved  away  and  Helena  explained  that  Hilary  was  on 
leave  and  that  he  was  downstairs,  talking  to  Cissie's  mother. 

"  We  were  reproved  for  talking  on  the  stairs,"  she  laughed. 

"  Staff's  orders,"  said  Walter.     "  I  tell  you.     She's  a  terror." 

Cissie  plucked  up  sufficient  courage  presently  to  go  down- 
stairs and  see  Hilary,  whom,  for  all  her  friendly  letters,  she 
had  never  yet  met.  Helena  and  Walter  were  left  alone. 

"Well?  "  they  said  simultaneously. 

"  All  right!  "  said  Walter.     "  How  about  you?  " 

"All  right,  too,"  said  Helena. 

"Happy?" 

"  Much  too  happy  .  .  .  to-day.  There's  no  France  and  no 
Salonika." 


WASTE  SHORES  309 

"Shouldn't  worry  about  the  beastly  places.  They  can't 
send  everybody.  Some  chaps  have  been  at  home  since  the 
beginning.  Chaps  I  mean,  who  joined  up  in  the  first  few 
weeks." 

"  But  when  is  it  going  to  end,  Wally!  You've  been  out  there. 
What  do  you  think?  " 

"  Going  out  there  doesn't  help  you.  You  only  know  what 
happens  on  your  own  little  bit  of  the  line  —  not  always  that. 
Life  in  the  trenches  is  frightfully  dull." 

"  But  you  think  —  some  day  —  there's  going  to  be  a  smash- 
ing military  victory?  " 

"For  us?" 

"  Yes.     I  suppose  I  meant  for  us." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  going  to  be  one  for  anybody.  Military 
victories  belong  to  the  past.  If  we  get  one  it  will  be  be- 
cause of  other  things  .  .  .  want  of  food  ...  or  a  social 
revolution." 

"  In  Germany?     That  doesn't  look  very  likely." 

"  Nothing  looks  very  likely,"  Walter  said,  "  if  it  comes  to 
that." 

They  were  silent  a  minute,  because  Staff  was  looking  at 
them. 

"  You  haven't  congratulated  me  yet,"  Walter  said  presently, 
"  on  getting  the  fever." 

Helena  apologised. 

"  I've  done  nothing  else  since  Cissie's  letter  came  last  night. 
It  was  tremendously  clever  of  you." 

"  Oh,  I've  a  positive  genius  for  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
measles  at  Havre  were  awfully  jolly.  They  are,  you  know,  if 
you  postpone  getting  'em  till  you've  reached  years  of  discre- 
tion." 

Helena  laughed. 

"  Any  news  from  home?  " 

"Oh,  nothing  — save  that  Ted's  joined  the  0.  T.  C." 

She  thought  that  out.  The  meaning  of  these  military  abbre- 
viations did  not  yet  jump  to  her  mind.  This  particular  one 
always  sounded  to  her  like  the  name  of  a  sauce.  "  Nothing 
else?  "  she  said,  when  she  had  managed  to  place  Ted.  "  No 
news  of  Jerome?  " 

"  None.     Doesn't  he  write?  " 


310  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

*'  Why  should  he?  There's  nothing  now  for  us  to  say  to  each 
other." 

"The  home  people  don't  write  either?  They're  still  keep- 
ing it  up?  " 

Helena  nodded. 

"  There's  Cissie,  of  course.     The  kind  child !  " 

"Poor  old  girl!" 

"  Oh,  don't  be  sorry  for  me!  I  don't  mind  —  I  mean  that. 
I've  just  stopped  caring.  I  did  care,  at  first  .  .  .  hoped  they'd 
understand  —  a  little.  They  don't,  and  letters  only  make  mat- 
ters worse.  It's  better  as  it  is.  Years  ago  I  remember  mother 
telling  father  I  had  no  natural  feeling.  He  said  he  didn't 
know  what  she  meant.  Neither  did  I  then.  But  I  do  now  — 
and  she  was  right.  I  do  seem  able  to  cut  myself  off  —  it  looks 
heartless,  and  I'm  not,  really." 

"  Jerome  too  ?     Is  he  cut  off?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  puzzled. 

"  Not  quite  —  perhaps.  There's  some  link  there,  still,  which 
holds.  Even  my  anger  against  him  didn't  break  it  —  and  that's 
gone." 

"  Can't  think  how  you  manage  it.     I  should  be  furious." 

"  But  you  can't  go  on  being  angry  all  the  time.  Besides, 
I  do  —  somehow  —  understand.  Even  when  I  want  to  be  an- 
gry with  him  I  can  only  be  sorry.  Not  that  he'd  like  that  any 
better." 

She  paused,  reflecting  that,  at  its  best,  pity  was  an  insolent 
virtue. 

"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  it  isn't  as  though  he  has  made  any 
difference.  Any  real  difference,  I  mean.  We're  horrible  self- 
ish moderns  .  .  .  who  did  at  least  try  to  be  decent.  We 
weren't  very  successful.  Our  generation  isn't,  somehow,  at  the 
old-fashioned  virtues." 

"  Oh,  damn  the  old-fashioned  virtues,"  said  Walter. 

"We  have!" 

"Any  regrets?" 

"None." 

They  were  suddenly  silent,  because  Staff  was  crossing  their 
line  of  vision  again.  When  she  had  moved  away  Helena  said 
irrelevantly : 


WASTE  SHORES  311 

"  Why  don't  you  and  Cissie  get  married  ?  Hasn't  it  occurred 
to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  rather.  The  point  is,  Mrs.  Ellingham  doesn't  believe 
in  war  weddings.  She  probably  told  you  that  on  the  stairs." 

"She  did.  She  told  us  quite  a  lot  on  the  stairs,  in  fact, 
before  they  stopped  her.  What  has  she  got  against  the  war 
wedding?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  afraid  I'd  get  killed  —  or  something  —  and  leave 
Cissie  saddled  with  a  baby." 

"How  silly!     Because  you  needn't." 

**  Of  course  not.  I've  no  intention  of  getting  killed.  Or 
was  it  the  baby  you  were  thinking  of?  " 

"  Don't  joke." 

"About  babies?  Good  Lord,  no.  They  aren't  any  laugh- 
ing matter,  I  suppose." 

"  About  being  killed,  I  meant." 

"  I  wasn't  joking  about  that.     I'm  not  going  to  get  killed." 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't.  It's  what  they  all  say.  It's  tempting 
Fate." 

"  Didn't  know  you  believed  in  her." 

"Neither  did  I.     It's  this  beastly  war.     I  hate  it!  " 

"  Doesn't  everybody?  " 

"  No.  Some  people  are  enjoying  it.  A  lot  of  people  are 
rinding  it  useful.  Women  especially.  It's  giving  them  some- 
thing to  do.  That's  what  most  women  wanted.  Sooner  or 
later  it  will  give  them  the  vote.  I'd  rather  never  have  it." 

"  Is  it  war  you  hate,  or  just  this  war?  " 

"  War  —  all  war.  But  this  most  of  all.  Because  I'm  living 
in  it;  and  I've  got  so  little  of  this  national  sense  ...  or  at 
least  if  I  have  I've  got  it  differently.  I'm  not  possessive,  I 
suppose,  even  about  my  native  land.  Our  patriotic  songs  don't 
thrill  me  —  at  least,  not  with  pride.  Patriotism  doesn't  seem 
to  produce  poets  —  anyway,  not  the  sort  of  patriotism  that 
produces  the  songs." 

"The  National  Anthem,"  said  Walter.  "Pretty  rotten,  I 
suppose,  on  the  literary  side." 

"  I'd  rather  have  that  than  Rule  Britannia"  Helena  said. 
"  I  know  it  was  written  in  the  eighteenth  century.  You'd 
think  people  wouldn't  care  about  singing  it  now  —  that  they'd 


312  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

know  better!  That  awful  idea  the  old  Jews  had,  of  being  the 
Chosen  People!  " 

"  I  know  —  and  yet  there  is  something.  I  can't  explain. 
Somehow,  you  can't  even  think  of  us  not  getting  through  this. 
England  means  something  .  .  .  somehow." 

"  Yes  —  association.  The  sort  of  thing  everybody  feels  for 
the  place  they  were  born  in  and  have  lived  in.  I've,  got  it 
for  Yorkshire.  Or  used  to  have.  But  I  wouldn't  go  back 
there  now  .  .  .  London  means  so  much  more  than  Yorkshire 
ever  did.  Parochialism  writ  large!  I  don't  object  to  that  —  if 
that's  what  you  mean  by  patriotism.  But  scarcely  anybody 
does." 

"  I  think  it  may  be  what  /  mean.  One's  own  country  ought 
to  mean  something  —  ought  to  stand  for  something.  One  does 
want  her  to  set  an  example  ...  I  can't  explain.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  try.  Staff  is  simply  glaring  at  us.  It's  so  nice  to  see 
you,  and  so  difficult  to  remember  you  mustn't  talk.  .  .  ." 

They  managed  not  to,  however,  until  Hilary  came  up,  when 
they  began  again.  Only  on  all  sorts  of  jolly  things  and  not 
about  the  war  at  all.  Soldiers,  it  seems,  were  not  much  inter- 
ested in  the  war  when  they  were  on  leave.  Sometimes,  they 
weren't  interested  in  it  at  all  —  were  only  inexpressibly  bored 
by  it  —  and  hoped  you  would  let  them  forget  all  about  it. 

Presently  Staff  came  up  (it  was  a  wonder  she  had  not  come 
before)  and  said  she  thought  it  was  time  Lieutenant  Morden's 
visitors  said  good-bye. 

"  And  it's  time  for  your  medicine,"  she  told  him. 

They  left  him  taking  it. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  a  nurse  for  a  million,"  Helena  said,  as  she 
walked  out  into  the  (not  exactly  fresh)  air  of  Bethnal  Green. 
"Would  you?" 

"  I  might  consider  it,"  Hilary  said,  "  if  I  were  a  woman  and 
all  my  patients  were  as  nice  to  look  at  as  Walter." 

"  Oh,  the  Mordens  are  '  a  good-looking  lot.'  Didn't  you 
know  that?  Mrs.  Ellingham  said  that  many  years  ago,  when 
we  were  all  young  and  beautiful." 

"  Why  doesn't  she  say  sensible  things  like  that  now,  1 
wonder?  " 

Helena  laughed,  climbing  on  to  their  'bus. 


WASTE  SHORES  313 

It  was  bleak  up  there  in  the  wind  of  the  late  sunless  after- 
noon. September  was  going  out  in  sullen  bad  temper,  very 
disappointing  to  those  who  loved  her  and  had  expected  better 
things  of  her. 

**  Pull  that  wrap  of  yours  up  tighter,"  Hilary  said,  fishing 
for  pennies.  "  It's  draughty  up  here."  He  pulled  her  round 
gently  by  the  shoulder  to  see  that  she  had  obeyed,  and  she 
shivered  a  little  as  his  fingers  came  against  her  throat,  remem- 
bering that  other'bleak  day,  quite  early  in  the  morning,  when 
it  had  been  Jerome  who  covered  up  her  throat  -in  this  gentle 
fashion.  Not  often,  these  days,  but  always  unexpectedly,  trist- 
ful memories  like  this  floated  back  to  her.  Now,  as  always, 
they  brought  her  to  silence. 

"Tired?  "  Hilary  asked  her  after  a  while. 

"  No  —  just  thoughtful." 

"  Oh,  don't  think,  Beloved.     It's  a  rotten  habit." 

She  slid  her  hand  into  his,  sat  closer,  while  the  'bus  ran  on 
through  the  dingy  streets,  and  presently  they  laughed  together 
at  the  jolly  sight  of  a  man  coming  down  Bishopsgate  Street 
with  a  huge  Teddy  bear  in  his  arms.  He  had  evidently  just 
bought  it  at  Wisbey's  on  the  corner  of  Houndsditch,  and  had 
preferred  it  without  paper,  as  Hilary  preferred  his  pewter 
vase. 

When  they  reached  home  they  found  the  Liberty  people  had 
been  as  good  as  their  word,  for  their  new  cushions  and  the  black 
and  silver  tuffit,  thinly  disguised  in  brown  paper,  sat  awaiting 
them  in  the  hall. 

They  dragged  them  upstairs  after  them  and  made  the  studio 
gay,  after  which  they  had  tea  and  tried  to  decide  where  the 
pewter  vase  should  go.  That,  however,  was  a  long  and  serious 
business,  scarcely  settled  before  people  began  to  arrive. 


The  news  of  Hilary's  "  leave "  had  gone  abroad :  so  that 
there  was  quite  a  crowd  in  his  honour.  Barbara  and  Stephen 
came  early,  but  with  eyes  and  tongues  for  nothing  save  the 
pewter  vase;  Dagmar  and  Olive  were  early,  too,  with  more 
details  concerning  varicose  veins  and  the  nurses  who  had  them 


314  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

(which  for  some  reason  or  other,  everybody  seemed  to  find  very 
funny  —  probably  because  the  veins  belonged  to  somebody 
else).  And  Evey  came  with  Estelle  and  a  letter  from  Phil, 
passages  from  which  she  read  in  a  corner  to  Hilary  (which  was 
what  she  had  brought  it  for).  Nelly  had  deserted  Woolwich 
for  Chelsea,  and  had  managed  to  bring  with  her  the  vital  part 
of  her  they  missed  when  she  left  it  behind.  Vivien  came,  too, 
not  with  Brian,  but  with  a  horrible  tale  of  some  Government 
office  into  which  he  had  disappeared  some  three  days  ago  and 
had  never  been  heard  of  since,  a  thing,  it  seems,  that  people 
were  constantly  doing.  Vivien,  shrugging  thin  shoulders  under 
her  flame-coloured  frock,  thought  there  were  probably  some 
strings  Brian  could  pull  more  effectively  from  the  inside  of  a 
Government  office,  but  seemed  bored  with  string-pulling  as  a 
topic  of  conversation  and  went  over  to  look  at  the  new  vase. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening  Lieutenant  Millington  looked 
in,  wearing  a  sling,  and  a  thoughtful  air.  With  him  came  Pa- 
mela, pathetically  lovely  in  her  fashionable  mourning  and  with 
the  soul  she  didn't  possess  looking  as  usual  out  of  her  beau- 
tiful eyes. 

But  it  wasn't  Pamela's  eyes  you  thought  of  at  all,  this  evening 
—  but  those  of  Lieutenant  Millington.  It  would  have  been  a 
jolly  enough  evening  if  you  could  have  got  the  look  in  them  out 
of  your  mind. 

Helena  and  Hilary  agreed  that  later,  when  everyone  had 
gone.  And  that  they  couldn't. 

"What's  it  mean?  "  Helena  asked,  "that  he's  seen  abomin- 
able things?  " 

"  Worse  —  that  he  can't  forget  them." 

She  shivered  and  was  quiet. 

"  Did  he  mention  the  poems?  " 

"Wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  people  were  reading  'em. 
Are  they,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Oh  yes.     Even  people  who  don't  read  poetry  as  a  rule." 

"  Egged  on,  I  suppose,  by  the  people  who  do  and  are  quar- 
relling about  him.  But  will  they  see  what  he  wants  them  to 
see?" 

"  He  asked  you  that?  " 

Hilary  nodded. 


WASTE  SHORES  315 

"  They  won't,  of  course.  People  never  see  more  than  they 
want  to  see." 

Helena  said  nothing  to  that.  There  was  nothing  to  say  be- 
cause it  was  true.  But  presently: 

"  Has  it  been  a  nice  day?  "  she  asked. 

"More  than." 

They  sat  there  by  their  dwindling  fire  thinking  of  their 
"  more  than  nice "  day,  and  of  the  other  coming  apace  — 
stretched  out  before  them,  white,  inviolate,  that  they  might 
write  on  it  what  they  would. 

The  passion  of  life  and  youth  stirred  within  them.  The 
world  was  in  travail,  but  here  were  two  whole  days  of  happi- 
ness. Like  children,  they  stretched  out  their  hands  to  them, 
forgetting  the  world's  pain  and  that  look  in  young  Millington's 
eyes. 

They  were  so  young.     They  could  not  remember  all  the  time. 


CHAPTER  SIX 


AFTER  Hilary's  return  to  camp,  life  settled  down  again 
for  Helena  into  that  routine  groove  where  dull  things 
waited  to  be  done,  and  she  found  she  was  glad  enough 
to  see  them,  because  the  more  work  you  had  to  do  the  better 
you  felt  about  things.  With  Mr.  Bletchington  still  on  his  Re- 
cruiting Campaign,  Helena  was  grateful  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  to  those  people  who  responded  so  thoroughly  to  the  invita- 
tion they  saw  in  tube,  'bus  and  train,  to  confide  their  troubles 
to  the  Britisher.  She  discovered  how  true  it  is  that  when  you 
are  reading  about  other  people's  woes  you  have  very  little  time 
to  remember  your  own. 

At  first,  too,  there  were  visits  to  be  paid  (with  Evey)  to 
Walter  at  Bethnal  Green,  and  Cissie  to  be  brought  back  to  tea; 
but  early  in  October  these  pleasant  things  came  to  an  end,  for 
Walter  was  discharged  from  hospital  and  went  to  convalesce 
at  some  ducal  estate  beyond  Edinburgh.  From  the  letters  and 
postcards  which  arrived  for  Helena  and  Evey  they  gathered 
that  he  was  having  a  good  time  and  that  the  ducal  estate  ran 
to  a  park,  a  library,  swimming  baths  and  lochs  —  though  the 
latter,  to  be  sure,  were  rather  lost  upon  Walter  because  he 
didn't  fish.  But  Evey  and  Helena  missed  their  visits  to  the 
Bethnal  Green  hospital  and  wished  the  ducal  estate  had  been  a 
little  nearer  Chelsea. 

About  this  time,  too,  Hilary  was  sent  further  into  Essex 
to  embark  on  some  new  course  of  musketry  drill.  Helena  and 
Evey  found  this  depressing.  Still,  Essex  was  Essex:  one  had 
to  remember  that.  But  though  the  word  "  draft "  had  receded 
for  the  moment,  it  had  not  by  any  means  lost  anything  of  its 
terror,  because  with  the  Allied  Forces  landing  at  Salonika  and 
moving  away  into  Serbia,  and  the  Greek  Government  declining 

31ft 


WASTE  SHORES  317 

to  come  to  Serbia's  assistance,  you  felt  that  anything  might 
happen  and  at  any  time. 

Zeppelins  and  rumours  of  Zeppelins  continued  to  liven  things 
up  in  England.  London  had  sustained  another  air  raid  and 
Helena  and  Evey  had  got  stuck  in  the  tube  and  did  not  reach 
home  until  nearly  three  in  the  morning.  "  Treating  "  had  been 
abolished  in  the  public-houses,  and  the  barometer  and  the  'bus 
fares  had  risen  simultaneously. 

There  was  another  thing,  too,  that  happened  in  October,  nine- 
teen-fifteen,  for  it  was  the  first  fine  day  of  the  month  that 
Stella's  infant  selected  to  make  its  entry  into  the  world. 
Stephen  travelled  down  into  Sussex  to  see  Stella  and  the  new 
arrival  and  did  not  have  too  good  a  time.  He  had  only  been 
allowed  to  see  Stella  for  ten  minutes  or  so,  had  been  shown  the 
baby  in  a  niggardly  grudging  fashion,  very  hurtful  to  his  new 
fatherly  impulses,  and  had  not  been  asked  to  stay  to  lunch. 
So  Stephen  came  back  to  London  miserable,  save  when 
he  remembered  that  his  baby  was  a  girl,  because  girls  weren't 
expected  to  fight.  Stephen  seemed  to  find  that  a  cheerful 
thought  in  a  dismal  world.  Not  so  Barbara,  however. 

"No,  poor  little  devil,"  she  said,  "she'll  probably  think, 
some  day,  that  it's  better  to  fight  than  to  stop  behind." 

It  was  not  a  tactful  remark.  Barbara  herself  seemed  to  think 
so  and  added,  "  Even  in  war,  men  come  off  the  best." 

That  was  her  unshaken  conviction.  Probably  she  would  al- 
ways believe  that.  She  may  even  have  been  right.  Anyway, 
just  then  Brian  had  come  in  and  put  an  end  to  the  conversation, 
because  Brian,  they  felt,  would  not  be  over-interested  in  the  sub- 
ject of  Stephen's  baby  nor  in  any  subject  germane  to  her.  He, 
too,  dealt  in  unshakable  convictions.  One  was  that  Stephen 
was  a  hopeless  idiot;  the  other,  that  Stella  was  a  woman  to  be 
pitied.  That  explains  why,  when  Barbara  gave  him  the  news, 
he  said: 

"  Oh,  congratulations,  Gretton.  I  hope  Stella's  all  right," 
with  the  air  of  one  denying  the  right  of  a  man  to  the  common 
possession  of  unpopular  ideals  and  the  ordinary  human  rela- 
tionships. 

The  baby,  they  learned  later,  but  not  until  Brian  had  gone, 
was  to  be  called  Hilary  Elizabeth.  The  "  Hilary  "  it  seems  had 
been  decided  upon  many  months  ago.  That  was  the  best  of 


318  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

these  ambiguous  names:  Fate  could  not  play  you  any  dirty 
trick.  You  did  not  have  to  say  "  If  it's  a  girl  "  or  **  If  it's  a 
boy." 

"  Why  '  Elizabeth  '?  "  Barbara  wanted  to  know. 

"  Oh,  there's  always  someone  in  a  family  called  '  Elizabeth,'  " 
Evey  told  her,  "  though  I  can't  see  why  they  should  keep  pass- 
ing it  on.  But  families  are  like  that." 

Evey,  of  course,  knew  everything  there  was  to  know  about 
"  families."  Moreover,  there  were  numerous  "  Elizabeths " 
in  hers,  so  she  spoke  feelingly. 

But  Helena  laughed. 

"  I'm  fond  of  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  which  was  true.  "  And 
it  makes  the  '  Hilary '  human.  Hilary  was  a  saint  or  a  pope 
or  a  bishop,  wasn't  he?  —  something  that  wants  a  human  touch, 
anyhow." 

But  looking  at  Stephen's  rueful  face,  she  felt  that  Stephen 
had  no  love  for  "  Elizabeth  "  and  understood,  somehow,  that 
that  was  how  the  Brighton  people  had  felt  over  "  Hilary." 

At  Brighton,  of  course,  all  Stephen's  friends  were  suspect. 

Christmas  came  and  the  New  Year,  but  no  Hilary,  because  at 
the  new  camp  Christmas  "  leave "  had  begun  at  the  end  of 
the  first  week  in  December,  and  Hilary's  had  been  in  the  first 
"  batch."  His  luck  —  as  it  usually  was  in  this  sort  of  thing  — 
was  "  out." 

Still,  though  you  cannot  have  your  cake  and  eat  it,  it  was 
very  difficult  not  to  feel  depressed,  for  life  on  a  memory  be- 
comes, in  time,  too  big  a  strain.  And  events  didn't  help  you, 
either.  Conscription  loomed  on  the  horizon:  war  and  more 
war,  and  the  hope  of  peace  growing  fainter.  An  unpromising 
New  Year. 

On  a  fine  Saturday  towards  the  end  of  January,  when  Evey 
had  to  work  late  at  the  office,  Helena's  new-born  restlessness 
drove  her  out  of  doors  down  to  Charing  Cross,  where  she 
jumped  on  a  33  'bus  and  rode  to  Richmond. 

The  world  that  afternoon  was  bright  and  clear  cut:  there 
was  an  amber  streak  in  the  sky  and  the  robins  sang  in  their 
cheerful  fashion  on  the  winter  trees.  But  in  Richmond  Park 
were  memories.  Ghosts  walked  there,  sat  forlornly  on  seats, 
dreary-eyed,  as  if  lamenting  what  man  had  made  of  man.  Hel- 
ena had  a  sense  of  loneliness,  realised  that  here  at  Richmond 


WASTE  SHORES  319 

she  was  an  anomaly.  She  wondered  why  she  had  come,  and 
striding  on  towards  the  Robin  Hood  Gate  had  a  moment  of 
passionate  regret  for  the  fireside  and  book  she  had  left  behind. 
She  went  out  through  the  park  gates  into  a  road  that  har- 
boured ugly  cottages  and  across  which  flowed  a  constant  and 
surprising  stream  of  traffic.  Crossing  this,  she  went  along  the 
strip  of  meadow  ground,  over  the  wooden  bridge  and  up 
through  the  dead-leaf  drifts  to  Wimbledon  Common.  It  was 
colder  up  there  and  against  the  amber  streak  in  the  sky  the 
leafless  woods  of  Coombe  rose  dark  and  brooding.  More  traffic 
darted  across  the  roads  that  bisected  the  Common.  The  smell 
of  the  earth  came  up  fresh  and  fragrant,  and  the  poignant  scent 
of  the  daphne  shrub.  Helena  thought  wistfully  of  spring. 
Of  snowdrops  and  crocuses  and  the  blue  of  scyllas;  and  of  the 
little  winds  that  come  laughing  over  the  land.  .  .  . 

And  there,  sitting  on  a  backless  seat,  with  an  open  magazine 
on  her  lap,  was  Lucy  Elleker. 

Helena  kept  on.  Lucy,  though  she  might  not  have  the 
strength  of  mind  to  come  to  see  her,  nor  to  write  to  her  (be- 
cause doubtless  John  had  forbidden  it)  yet  would  not  either 
have  the  strength  of  mind  to  "  cut "  her  when  they  met  face  to 
face.  She  looked  up  presently  in  Helena's  direction,  recog- 
nised her  and  shut  up  her  magazine  suddenly  as  if  she  were 
nervous. 

"Hallo!  "  said  Helena,  when  she  was  near  enough. 

"Hullo!"  said  Lucy. 

Helena  sat  down  at  her  side. 

"This  is  a  visit  to  'The  Laurels,'  isn't  it?  "  she  asked. 

Lucy  said  yes.     She  had  been  there  j  ust  a  week. 

"111?" 

"  No.  The  air  raids  have  rather  upset  me.  I've  been  or- 
dered a  rest !  " 

That  was  nothing  new.  Lucy  was  constantly  being  ordered 
"  rests."  What  was  new  was  that  she  was  taking  one. 

"  You  can't  help  being  nervous  if  you  have  babies,  you  know. 
Oh,  I  suppose  you  don't.  But  you're  so  much  farther  in.  You 
have  them  badly  at  Chelsea,  don't  you?  " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  air  raids!  "  said  Helena,  who  had  been  getting 
confused. 

Aid  raids  didn't  interest  her,  and  the  conversation  slackened 


320  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

until  Lucy  remembered  the  magazine  and  showed  Helena  a  full- 
page  photograph  of  Gertrude  and  Adrian.  Gertrude  wore  a 
studied  maternal  air  and  a  very  gauzy  frock  of  which  there  was 
surprisingly  little;  and  Adrian  frowned  as  though  he  did  not 
like  being  hugged  in  this  public  fashion,  as  he  probably  did 
not.  He  was  an  extraordinarily  handsome  boy,  of  whom  any 
mother  might  well  have  been  proud.  Helena  smiled  at  the 
paragraph  that  was  printed  below  the  photograph. 

Mrs.  Edgar  Holmes,  one  of  the  youngest  of  our  political 
hostesses,  with  her  little  son,  Adrian.  It  is  rumoured  that 
her  husband  is  giving  up  his  parliamentary  duties  "  for  the 
duration  "and  is  about  to  take  up  a  commission  in  a  very 
famous  regiment. 

"  That  true?  "  Helena  asked,  who  never  believed  what  she 
saw  in  the  papers. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Lucy.  "  They  never  talk 
about  things  like  that  to  me.  I  haven't  heard  anything.  Do 
you  think  Gertrude  has  grown  stouter?  " 

"  Probably.     What's  to  stop  her?  " 

"  It's  a  lovely  frock,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Very.  Cleopatra  might  have  worn  it  or  Caesar's  wife.  I'm 
not  sure  that  Gertrude  can." 

"Why  not?" 

"  There's  too  little  of  it.  You  can't  steer  any  middle  course 
in  a  frock  like  that.  You've  got  to  be  one  or  the  other.  A 
Cleopatra  or  a  Caesar's  wife  —  or  perhaps  Dante's  Beatrice." 

"  You  are  funny,  Lena.     You  haven't  changed  a  scrap." 

"  People  don't  —  much  —  do  they?  " 

"I  don't  know.     But  you  haven't." 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  me  changed?  " 

"  I  did  —  rather." 

"You  seem  disappointed.  What  did  you  think  I'd  look 
like?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     You  see  .  .  .  you  look  happy." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I?     I  am  happy."  ' 

She  really  was.  Even  with  this  awful  war.  Because  of 
Essex  .  .  .  and  the  One  Person  who  lived  in  a  dull  camp  there. 

"  I  am  happy !  "  she  repeated,  more  for  her  own  benefit  than 


WASTE  SHORES  321 

Lucy's  perhaps.  There  was  such  a  danger,  nowadays,  that  she 
might  forget  it.  Down  there  in  the  park  she  very  nearly  had. 

Lucy  was  puzzled. 

"  But  I  thought  women  weren't  when  they  .  .  .  when 
they  .  .  ." 

"  Kick  over  the  traces?  " 

Helena  laughed. 

"  Oh,  but  I  haven't  kicked  very  high,  you  see." 

"  High  enough !  "  said  Lucy,  who  knew  that  it  wasn't  how 
far  or  how  high  you  kicked  that  mattered,  but  just  that  you 
kicked  at  all! 

Lucy  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going,"  she  said,  "  and  I  believe  I'm  getting 
cold." 

The  amber  streak  in  the  sky  was  fading.  Coombe  Woods 
were  a  dark  smudge  against  it,  cold  and  foreboding.  Helena 
shivered  a  little,  though  she  was  not  cold,  and  walked  at  Lucy's 
side  down  to  the  edge  of  the  Common.  They  talked  as  they 
went  of  the  children  ...  of  John,  and  Lucy's  health,  and 
that  day  they  had  all  met  in  the  tube;  and  of  Walter  and  his 
"  luck  "  and  how  kind  he  had  been,  and  of  what  John  thought 
of  Helena.  There  was  a  lot  of  this,  though  Lucy  put  it  as 
kindly  as  she  could  because  she  had  always  envied  Helena 
and  did  not  believe,  as  John  asserted,  that  she  must  be  suffer- 
ing for  her  wickedness  in  a  constant  mood  of  remorse.  She 
didn't  look  remorseful  and  she  didn't  look  unhappy.  Lucy 
was  sentimental,  but  in  some  dim  far-off  fashion  she  under- 
stood that  the  thing  which  can  make  you  really  happy  cannot 
be  a  bad  thing.  Badness  had  no  permanent  quality  of  happi- 
ness. She  disapproved  of  what  Helena  had  done:  was  re- 
minded at  least  once  a  week  why  she  and  all  other  women  must 
disapprove  of  it:  but,  none  the  less,  there  persisted  this  queer 
feeling  of  admiration  that  Helena  could  do  it  —  and  this 
queerer  feeling,  suspiciously  like  envy,  because  always,  some- 
how, Helena  seemed  to  get  the  thing  she  wanted  .  .  .  and  was 
happy.  Lucy,  hunting  for  her  happiness  on  low  levels,  had 
lost  the  trick  of  looking  up,  and  the  happiness  that  lives  on 
the  low  levels  gets  sometimes  soiled  and  spoiled.  Anyway, 
from  out  a  narrow  existence  of  safety,  chastity  and  good  re- 
pute —  which  nothing  on  earth  would  really  have  induced  her 


322  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

to  change  —  Lucy  could  not  help  glancing  at  this  gloriously 
tall  defiant  sister  of  hers,  with  eyes  shadowed  with  wistful 
envy. 

Helena  had  something  —  somehow. 

They  parted  at  the  corner  of  the  road  that  led  down  to 
"  The  Laurels." 

"  I  wonder,"  Lucy  said,  "  if  I  could  persuade  John  to  let  me 
come  and  see  you.  He's  so  dreadfully  strict  about  this  sort  of 
thing  and  he's  terribly  angry  with  you  still.  He  will  have  it, 
you  know,  '  Whom  God  hath  joined.  .  .  .' " 

"  But  God  had  less  to  do  with  it  than  a  white-haired  old 
gentleman  in  a  Registry  Office,"  said  Helena. 

"  Perhaps  that's  why,  Lena.  Of  course,  you've  never  felt 
married.  It  didn't  mean  anything.  If  you'd  been  properly 
married  I  daresay  it  would  have  been  different." 

"  Not  it,"  said  Helena.  "  I  made  a  mistake.  Lots  of  peo- 
ple do  and  never  find  it  out.  I  did.  And  it  mattered  so  much 
I  couldn't  go  on.  That's  modern  and  selfish.  Our  generation 
is.  The  pendulum  has  swung  round.  I  don't  know  .  .  .  some 
day  it  may  swing  back,  but  not  for  me.  I  shall  go  on  being 
selfish,  I  expect,  all  the  days  of  my  life." 

"  I  feel  so  awfully  sorry  for  Jerome,  Lena.  We  all  liked 
him  so  much  .  .  .  and  he's  so  fond  of  you." 

"  I'm  sorry,  too.     He'd  hate  us,  if  he  could  hear." 

"  Of  course,  if  he'd  only  divorce  you  so  that  you  could  be 
married  to  this  Mr.  Sargent,  it  would  be  all  right.  I  believe 
John  would  soon  come  round  then  —  though  he  does  disap- 
prove of  divorce.  There  ought,  somehow,  to  be  special  laws 
for  people  like  you." 

Helena  laughed. 

"  The  present  ones  altered  rather  severely  would  do,  you 
know,"  she  said.  "  We're  not  unreasonable.  Never  mind. 
Come  and  see  me.  Any  Saturday  or  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  I'd  love  to." 

"  Then  do.     What  about  next  Saturday?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  must  ask  John." 

"  Oh  damn  John,"  Helena  said. 

They  kissed  and  parted. 

Helena  strode  on  down  the  hill,  meaning  to  go  straight  to 


WASTE  SHORES  323 

the  station,  but  half-way  through  the  High  Street  she  was 
seized  by  a  violent  hunger  and  went  into  a  Lyons's  and  de- 
voured a  scone  and  butter  and  some  china  tea.  Cakes,  at  the 
beginning  of  nineteen-sixteen,  were  already  showing  signs  of 
their  ultimate  demise.  Helena  avoided  them. 

She  got  on  the  District  at  Wimbledon  station  and  rode  to 
South  Kensington,  from  which  ten  minutes'  sharp  walking 
landed  her  home. 

She  found  Evey  sprawling  on  the  blue  divan  reading  an 
article  by  Pamela  in  the  current  Looking-Glass  on  "Things 
to  Avoid  if  you  are  in  Uniform."  An  amazing  article,  this, 
inspired,  as  Helena  knew,  by  the  mental  anguish  induced  in 
Pamela  by  the  sight  of  the  silk  stockings  and  high  heels  Rosa- 
mund thought  fit  to  wear  with  hers. 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,"  Evey  said. 

But  Helena  had  already  seen  it.  Hilary's  sprawling  hand 
had  shouted  to  her  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway.  She  took  it 
down,  read  it  and  passed  it  over  to  Evey. 

"  Read  that,"  she  said. 

Six  lines  only  —  and  in  shorthand,  which  Hilary  never  used 
save  in  a  desperate  hurry.  His  outlines  were  untidy  but 
readable.  Transcribed,  this  is  what  Evey  made  of  them: 

Dear.  Have  leave  from  six  to-morrow  (Saturday).  Hope 
to  catch  the  '55.  Can  you  be  at  Liverpool  Street  at  nine? 
We'll  eat  something  at  Le  Diner  Francois. 

Hilary. 

"Well?"  said  Helena. 

"You  think  it  means  .  .  .  draft?  " 

"Yes.     Don't  you?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do.     Want  me  to  clear  out?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  do  ...  somehow." 

"  Try  to  be  sure.  .  .  ." 

"  I  am  sure.     I  want  you  to  stop." 

So  Evey  stayed,  and  later  not  only  she  and  Helena,  but  the 
whole  crowd,  when  it  arrived,  went  down  to  Liverpool  Street 
and  presently  took  Le  Diner  Frangais  by  storm. 


324  INVISIBLE  TIDES 


They  were  right,  of  course.  This  unexpected  leave  did 
mean  "draft."  Hilary  was  going  to  France  in  four  days' 
time. 

In  a  way,  he  was  glad,  or  at  least  relieved.  He  was  tired 
of  drills  and  camp,  and  anyway,  it  was  not  for  these  things  he 
had  "  joined  up."  But  even  that  did  not  make  it  easier  for 
him  or  for  Helena  during  those  three  days  of  leave.  They 
knew  them  for  what  they  were  —  three  days  of  reprieve.  Not 
all  the  heroism  of  the  world  has  the  battlefield  for  back- 
ground: nothing  and  no  one  was  ever  more  truly  heroic  than 
these  two  pretending  not  to  feel,  not  to  suffer,  concerned  only 
just  to  hearten  each  other  —  a  desperate  game  that  it  nearly 
broke  Evey's  heart  to  watch. 

But  they  were  grateful  for  Evey  during  those  three  days. 
Because  Evey  helped  —  putting  forth  every  ounce  of  determi- 
nation and  effort  in  the  cause  of  these  two  she  loved.  They 
understood,  too,  that  Evey  saw  the  position  —  knew  where  they 
stood.  (So  few  people  got  anything  like  as  far  as  that.  No 
wonder  they  were  grateful ! )  Evey  glimpsed  the  vivid  reality 
of  that  sense  of  a  common  brotherhood  that  sent  Hilary  into 
this  thing  he  hated  and  distrusted:  and  understood  that  if 
Helena  could  not  bear  to  think  of  him  as  a  "  passionate,  de- 
stroying beast,"  neither  could  she  attempt  to  keep  him  back, 
because  she  loved  him  and  believed  in  the  complete  freedom 
of  the  individual.  That,  briefly,  was  their  code  of  love  and 
even  now  the  worst  that  could  happen  to  them  was  that  one  or 
the  other  should  transgress  it.  No  two  lovers  ever  had  less  of 
the  sense  of  possession  in  their  mutual  passion  than  these  two 
people  Evey  loved;  ever  more  deliberately  kept  it  out.  No 
"  thou  shall  not "  was  ever  breathed  between  them !  no  mailed 
fist  of  the  imposed  will  lurked  beneath  the  velvet  glove  of 
affection.  They  had  learnt  —  most  difficult  lesson  of  all  —  to 
grant  each  other  sincerity  and  to  respect  it. 

Even  now,  over  this  question  of  the  war  (or  over  this  ques- 
tion of  the  humanity  that  sent  Hilary  into  it)  though  the  paths 
had  deviated  more  than  ever  before,  they  had  not  deviated  so 
widely  that  they  had  lost  sight  of  each  other,  or  could  not  meet 
at  the  cross  roads. 


WASTE  SHORES  325 

But  Evey  (wise  person!)  saw  more  than  that.  She  saw  that 
so  long  as  Hilary  lived  he  would  think.  He  was  essentially  a 
thinking  being,  who  could  no  more  help  thinking  than  he  could 
help  breathing.  He  had  thought  down  there  in  camp  —  about 
Army  "  discipline  "  and  routine  and  moral  effects.  He  would 
go  thinking  into  battle  (as  Masefield's  Saul  Kane  went  thinking 
into  the  prize  ring) ;  would  be  reduced  to  despair  by  the  things 
he  saw,  the  things  he  had  to  do.  No  typical  soldier,  Hilary. 
He  not  only  hated  soldiering:  he  would  not  be  able  to  forget 
that  he  hated  it;  that  violence  was  abhorrent  to  him;  that 
the  things  he  loved  were  peace  and  beauty  and  colour  and 
poetry;  the  look  of  a  sunset,  of  moonlight  on  a  sandy  shore, 
the  scent  of  the  earth  after  rain.  .  .  . 

He  would  have  "moods  "-—moods  of  bitter  hatred  of 
things  —  of  himself.  He  who  loved  life  and  would  not  have 
taken  the  life  of  the  meanest  thing,  would  bring  death  to 
many.  .  .  . 

And  for  reasons  his  intellect  could  not  accept.  Here  again 
was  heroism,  if  you  liked  —  here  in  this  Unhappy  Warrior 
who  had  no  romantic  illusions  and  none  of  Barbara's  beliefs 
to  sustain  him,  but  who  with  calm  face  walked  the  shambles 
because  others  walked  them  —  because  if  there  was  suffering 
and  pain  to  be  borne  he,  too,  must  shoulder  his  share!  Not 
else  could  he  bear  to  live. 

He  would  fight  in  agony,  misery  and  disgust,  and  Evey 
honoured  him,  because  he  knew  these  things  and  yet  went  on. 

Helena,  too.  Even  while  she  suffered  and  realised  nothing 
of  anything  save  that  she  would  give  her  life  to  save  him 
from  .  .  that. 


Hilary  returned  to  camp  on  the  Monday,  and  on  the  Wednes- 
day Helena  went  to  Victoria  in  a  cold  mist  and  saw  him  march 
by  to  entrain,  encumbered  horribly  by  the  trappings  of  war, 
but  smiling,  because  she  stood  there  showing  him  a  brave 
face  —  and  he  had  not  known  she  would  be  there  at  all. 

But  one  pays  heavily  for  this  sort  of  thing,  and  Helena 
went  home  and  cried  terribly  on  Evey's  shoulder.  Later  she 
went  to  the  office  and  suffered  the  dictation  of  Mr.  Bletching- 


326  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

ton's  page  eight  article,  which  was  all  about  the  bestiality  of 
the  Germans  and  why  we  must  hate  them  for  ever  and  ever.  .  .  . 
Later  still,  she  told  Evey  she  could  have  borne  that  scene 
at  Victoria  better  if  they  had  not  sung  Tipperary.  To  sing 
Tipperary  whilst  you  swept  out  on  to  the  plains  of  Death! 
That  was  not  the  way  to  think  of  it,  but,  obstinately,  Helena 
could  think  of  it  in  no  other  way.  And  one  thing  was  certain. 
She  would  hate  Tipperary  as  long  as  she  lived. 


Untouched  by  Walter's  "  luck,"  unstopped  of  measles  and 
fevers,  Hilary  got  out  to  France  in  time,  as  Helena  did  not  dare 
to  let  herself  think,  for  the  Verdun  battle  which  began  at  the 
end  of  February.  But  letters  headed  "  Somewhere  in  France  " ! 
What  did  they  tell  you! 

Yet,  after  the  passing  of  those  first  few  weeks,  insensibly 
things  began  to  settle  down  again,  and  Helena  with  them.  For 
it  is  remarkable  to  what  degree  you  can  school  yourself  to  go 
on  with  life  where,  for  one  frozen  moment,  you  have  laid  it 
down.  So  many  things  to  do,  and  all  so  ridiculously  neces- 
sary :  meals  to  be  prepared  and  eaten :  'buses  to  catch,  letters  to 
write,  books  to  fetch  and  return  to  Mudie's;  books,  even,  to 
read,  because  reading  was  the  one  supreme  way  of  forgetting 
the  things  it  didn't  help  you  to  remember.  For  Helena,  too, 
there  was  always  the  Britisher,  a  sufficiently  absorbing  occu- 
pation. Everlastingly,  that  had  to  be  read  and  marked:  let- 
ters sent  to  its  editor  from  out  the  pit  had  to  be  read  and  an- 
swered, or  read  and  passed  on.  Articles  had  to  be  taken  down 
in  shorthand  and  transcribed  furiously,  with  the  printer's  devil 
at  one's  elbow ;  and  each  press  morning  there  was  a  minor  rev- 
olution to  be  dealt  with  when  the  things  that  Mr.  Bletchington 
had  "  left  to  the  last "  could  suddenly  wait  no  longer,  but  rose 
up  and  attacked  en  masse. 

There  was  humour,  too,  in  the  Britisher  office,  of  a  sort. 
Things  went  on  being  funny,  even  though  your  heart  ached. 
Never  even  for  a  moment  would  life  leave  you  alone. 

"Just  make  certain  who  wrote  that,  will  you,  my  dear?  " 
Mr.  Bletchington  said  one  morning,  handing  Helena  a  sheet  of 
paper  with  something  typed  upon  it.  The  extract  began: 


WASTE  SHORES  327 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  liath  said.  .  .  . 

"  Scott,"  said  Helena. 

"  You'd  better  make  certain.  Sure  it  isn't  Mrs.  Hemans? 
Borrow  Vane's  Dictionary  of  Quotations." 

So  Helena  went  out,  borrowed  the  book  and  wrote  beneath 
the  verse:  "Scott.  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  Canto  vi. 
Stanza  I." 

"  Ah,  Scott,  was  it?  "  Mr.  Bletchington  said,  looking  at  her 
in  a  reproving  fashion  over  the  rim  of  his  glasses;  but  he 
quoted  him  very  aptly  in  his  article  that  week  which  dealt  with 
"  pro-Germans "  and  "  slackers."  The  Deity,  it  seems,  was 
thought  to  be  in  need  of  a  rest  ..."  Pro-Germans "  and 
"  slackers  "  of  course  were  not  entitled  to  one. 

Few  people  quoted  poetry  as  prettily  as  Alexander  Bletch- 
ington, or  knew  as  little  about  it.  Not  that  that  is  necessary. 
A  really  reliable  Dictionary  of  Quotations  saves  a  deal  of 
learning. 

The  days  that  were  amusing,  however,  did  not  crowd  out  the 
days  that  were  not;  the  days  when  Helena  could  have  choked 
Mr.  Bletchington  with  his  own  articles,  when  her  head  ached 
and  things  got  on  her  nerves  and  she  went  down  to  the  National 
Gallery  at  midday  instead  of  meeting  Evey  like  a  reasonable 
being  and  eating  a  sensible  lunch.  What  she  looked  at  most 
when  she  went  there  was  Rossetti's  "  Well-Beloved  "  that  Hilary 
had  first  sent  her  to  see.  There  was  something  infinitely 
soothing  in  the  sight  of  that  beautiful  central  head  and  in 
those  others  that  surrounded  it;  something  that  made  you 
forget  how  ugly  the  world  had  become.  They  were  so  lovely, 
all  those  girls:  you  could  not  imagine  them  smothering  the 
bright  beauty  of  their  hair  under  a  munitioner's  cap,  nor 
(though  these  things  were  necessary  in  war  time,  perhaps) 
enfolding  their  limbs  in  khaki.  Helena  loved  them  because 
they  stood  aside  from  this  world  of  war  and  bloodshed;  un- 
troubled, untouched  by  the  anxiety  that  would  not  let  her 
rest  .  .  .  that  sent  her  here  where  it  was  quiet  and  where 
things  that  were  beautiful  caressed  her  spirit  as  the  hand  of 
spring  breezes  outside  caressed  her  face  —  tenderly,  as  though 
they  loved  her. 


328  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

On  other  days  she  went  down  to  Westminster  and  sat  in  the 
Cathedral.  Sometimes  during  this  hour  given  over  to  the 
workers'  lunch  there  was  a  service  in  progress  and  singing. 
But  more  often  there  was  not,  and  Helena  liked  it  better  that 
way ;  wanting  only  to  sit  somewhere  at  the  back  and  keep  quiet, 
praying,  like  Matthew  Arnold,  to  the  Calm  Soul  of  Things 
for  the  power  neither  "  to  strive  nor  cry."  There  were  things 
here  it  quieted  you  somehow,  to  look  at:  the  big  cross  swinging 
high  in  the  gloom  before  the  great  altar,  the  face  of  Eric  Gill's 
St.  Veronica,  that  she  thought  beautiful,  though  she  remem- 
bered that  Hilary  did  not,  and  that  a  great  many  people  agreed 
with  him.  It  was  queer  to  sit  here  amid  this  atmosphere  of 
things  she  rejected,  untouched  by  the  faith  that  inspired  them 
and  rendered  scarcely  wistful  by  the  sight  of  the  supplicants 
who  came  and  went,  lighting  their  candles,  telling  their  beads. 
One  girl  in  particular  there  was.  She  had  a  pale  thin  face 
and  dark  burning  eyes,  and  she  made  a  slow  round  of  the 
shrines,  praying  before  each  on  her  knees  and  standing  before 
them  when  the  prayer  was  done  with  an  agony  of  supplication 
in  her  eyes,  her  hands  crossed  devoutly  on  her  breast. 

Helena  thought  it  must  be  for  her  lover  she  prayed  and  was 
sorry  for  her  because  she  knew  how  horrible  it  was  to  care  — 
like  that  —  for  someone  out  there  in  the  midst  of  battle.  So 
many  people  praying  for  so  many  others  —  and  for  such  a 
reason!  Presently  Helena  went  no  more  to  the  Cathedral. 
She  did  not  know  why,  unless  it  was  that  the  dark  girl  had 
begun  to  get  on  her  nerves.  .  .  . 

Nothing,  however,  could  do  that  on  those  days  when  Hilary's 
letters  arrived.  Astonishing  letters  they  were,  to  Helena,  tell- 
ing her  nothing  save  that  he  was  well  and  safe  (though  that 
was  everything,  perhaps)  but  across  which  played  a  continuous 
flicker  of  delicate  humour.  But  they  made  her  happy,  sent 
care  dropping  from  her  like  Christian's  bundle  of  sin,  and  she 
herself  into  the  open  to  walk  hopefully  abroad.  That  was  why 
on  the  Saturday  following  the  Arctic  storm  with  which  March 
in  nineteen-sixteen  went  out,  Evey  and  Helena  climbed  on  to  a 
TJUS  at  Hammersmith  and  rode  down  through  the  turquoise 
afternoon  to  look  at  the  park  at  Richmond.  They  descended 
from  their  'bus  at  Sheen  Lane  and  walked  up  to  Sheen  Com- 
mon, past  neat  suburban  houses  and  neat  suburban  roads  along 


WASTE  SHORES  329 

which  young  women  wheeled  neat  babies  in  neat  perambulators, 
and  in  which  lime  trees  (cut  to  look  as  neat  as  the  babies) 
lifted  shorn  blunt  branches  to  the  bright  blue  of  the  day.  A 
neat  suburb,  this,  in  which  even  nature  must  be  made  to  toe 
the  line. 

Sheen  Common,  which  should  have  burned  yellow  beneath 
this  hot  sun,  was  still  brown  and  bare,  because  the  gorse  had 
seen  what  had  happened  last  week  to  the  almond  trees  and  had 
grown  disheartened.  But  Helena  and  Evey  wended  their  way 
through  the  prickly  bushes  into  the  park  and  sat  down  on 
mackintoshes  to  smell  the  spring  in  the  air  and  to  feel  the  tug 
and  charm  of  things  that  grow. 

They  had  chosen  a  spot  overlooking  the  Penn  Ponds,  beyond 
which,  to  right  and  left,  were  sloping  hillsides  across  which 
and  up  and  down  the  long  shadows  ran  swiftly.  A  hawthorn 
tree  near  by  (much  braver  than  the  gorse)  was  heavy  with 
bud  —  pale  green  beads  on  a  brown  string:  and  out  there  on 
the  slopes  the  dead  bracken  took  on  a  purple  hue,  as  though  it 
were  not  bracken,  nor  dead.  And  once  or  twice  a  swallow 
darted  past  above  their  heads  —  a  white-flecked  arrow  in  the 
turquoise  sky. 

"  Tiresome  bird,  the  swallow,"  Evey  said,  when  her  attention 
was  called  to  him.  "  He  doesn't  make  a  summer.  So  lazy  of 
him!" 

Helena  spent  the  afternoon  in  writing  to  Hilary,  and  Evey 
read  Sir  Edward  Cook's  Life  of  Florence  Nightingale,  for 
which  Evey  was  profoundly  grateful.  No  sentimentalised  fig- 
ure of  the  Lady  of  the  Lamp  did  you  encounter  in  Cook,  but  a 
gigantic,  wonderful  person  who  stormed  the  War  Office,  worked 
her  friends  to  death  and  "had  done  with  being  amiable." 
Evey  had  waited  too  long,  she  thought,  before  getting  ac- 
quainted with  her.  The  Lady  of  the  Lamp  faded  quietly  into 
blessed  oblivion:  Miss  Nightingale  was  so  much  more  than  that 
and,  besides,  Evey  had  no  use  for  the  Victorian  ideals. 

Presently,  when  the  letter  was  finished,  Evey  was  persuaded 
temporarily  to  abandon  Sir  Edward  Cook  and  Miss  Nightingale 
in  favour  of  tea.  They  had  it  in  a  rose-coloured  room  that 
looked  on  to  the  river,  and  were  a  very  long  while  about  it  so 
that  the  sky  was  no  longer  blue  when  they  left,  but  growing 
black,  like  the  river.  .  .  . 


330  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

But  they  were  happy  because  somehow  or  other  they  had 
escaped  from  all  the  things  that  stood  between  youth  and  the 
happiness  that  belongs  to  it.  And  then  as  their  'bus  rose 
noisily  over  the  railway  bridge  at  Barnes,  an  ambulance  train 
was  crawling  slowly  beneath  them  through  the  station.  .  .  . 

Not  for  long  were  you  permitted  to  forget.  That,  always, 
was  the  way  of  it. 

5 

Two  days  later,  on  the  Monday,  news  came  that  Hilary  was 
wounded.  Not  badly,  in  the  left  shoulder.  They  had  oper- 
ated, and  he  was  going  on  satisfactorily.  No  need,  said  the 
nurse  who  wrote  the  letter,  to  worry.  Pte.  Sargent  asked 
particularly  that  they  should  not. 

But  Helena  cried  bitterly  into  Hilary's  blue  cushions  because 
it  was  not  a  "  blighty  "  wound.  .  .  . 


Later,  to  please  Helena,  Hilary  wrote  of  his  Ether  Adven- 
ture, in  which,  as  he  said,  he  had  played  a  singularly  unin- 
spiring principal  part. 

llth  April,  1916. 

.  .  .  It's  a  queer  business,  this  taking  of  ether.  Someone 
holding  your  hand,  someone  else  saying  "  Breathe  hard  .  .  . 
breathe  hard,"  and  (presently)  "  That's  right  .  .  .  that's 
right"  For  a  moment  you  feel  proud  that  you  are  doing  so 
well,  and  then  that  you  simply  can't  stand  any  more  of  it. 
After  that,  an  awful  stabbing  darkness,  an  unutterable  pres- 
sure and  —  miles  away  —  that  nice  voice,  "Breathe  hard!  " 
.  .  .  You  come  back  hours  afterwards  trailing  a  crowd  of 
happy  memories  .  .  .  sobbing  idiotically  because  you  can't 
remember  what  they  are.  (Talk  about  "  recollections  of  Im- 
mortality"!) I  wonder  if  it's  like  that  to  die?  .  .  .  Only  I 
mustn't  talk  of  dying  or  Deirdre  will  look  like  the  Little 
Sister  of  the  Sphinx  which  always  means  that  she  is  un- 
happy. People  are  kind  to  you  when  you're  coming  back 
to  earth  dropping  all  your  pretty  memories.  Even  here  in 


WASTE  SHORES  331 

a  great  hospital  where  there  are  so  many  of  you,  and  they 
must  get  tired  of  you.  They  understand  you  feel  sick  and 
limp  and  have  a  pain  in  your  left  shoulder.  They  smile  at 
you  .  .  .  find  you  pillows  and  oilier  comfortable  things. 
And  you  let  them  because  nothing  matters  any  more,  only 
you're  feebly  glad  they  have  given  you  a  hot-water  bottle.  .  .  . 

The  letter  broke  off  here  as  though  the  necessity  of  writing 
with  no  left  arm  to  steady  the  paper  got  between  the  writer 
and  what  he  wanted  to  say.  It  went  on  again  beneath  the 
next  day's  date. 

18th  April,  1916. 

Much  later  you  discover  there's  a  Concert  going  on  some- 
where in  the  hospital  (hospitals  are  the  noisiest  places!).  I 
lie  here  now  that  I'm  better  trying  to  distinguish  and  classify 
them.  On  this  night  people  are  singing  and  clapping  their 
hands.  .  .  .  It  seems  silly;  you  find  you  aren't  interested 
in  concerts.  The  sound  of  dinner-plates  gets  mixed  up  with 
the  music  and  the  singing:  other  people  have  things  brought 
to  them  on  a  tray.  You  feel  you  aren't  going  to  have  any 
dinner  —  and  that  seems  a  tragedy.  Presently  you  discover 
that  you  don't  want  any  dinner  —  that  you  don't  want  any- 
thing save  not  to  feel  sick  and  not  to  have  a  pain  in  your 
left  shoulder. 

Later,  a  nurse  appears  and  says,  "Are  you  feeling  bet- 
ter? "  and  "  Good  night "  and  "  No,  I'm  afraid  you  can't 
have  any  tea  —  yet."  This  is  another  tragedy.  The  day 
nurses  go  off,  and  you  are  left  thinking  of  tea  out  of  a  blue 
teapot  in  a  blue  and  silver  room  with  a  black  and  yellow 
cat  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  Someone  adorably  shy  in  a  blue 
frock  in  a  blue  armchair,  whom,  presently,  you  persuade  to 
take  off  her  hat.  Such  a  lot  of  blue,  always,  in  the  best 
places.  .  .  . 

When  the  night  nurse  comes  she  brings  you  a  letter  from 
the  Someone  (though  she  oughtn't  to  have  done  because  it's 
against  the  rules.  Nearly  everything's  against  the  rules,  in 
hospital).  You  struggle  up  and  read  it  because  "  Someone  " 
w  the  Person  Who  Matters  Most.  They  have  sent  it  down 
the  line  ...  a  Utter  about  Spring  at  Richmond,  and  swal- 


332  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

lows  and  Evey  and  Florence  Nightingale  and  the  hawthorn 
buds.  Such  a  nice  letter  to  get!  You  put  it  under  your 
pillow  and  press  your  head  down  tightly  upon  it.  You 
think  it  makes  the  headache  better.  The  night  nurse  brings 
you  some  water.  You  drink  it  and  wonder  why  it  doesn't 
stop  your  feeling  sick.  Because  it  doesn't. 

You  go  on  feeling  sick.  You  are  convinced  by  this  time 
that  you  will  never  feel  anything  else.  You  hate  the  sight  of 
the  enamel  bowl  someone  has  put  at  your  side.  You  sud- 
denly remember  what  they  said:  "  Here's  a  bowl  if  you  feel 
sick."  An"  If  "  as  great  as  Shakespeare's.  Ugh! 

The  night  nurse  goes  away  and  leaves  you.  This  is  a 
tiny  ward:  there  are  no  bad  cases  in  it.  The  others  are 
asleep:  you  can't  help  feeling  it's  heartless  of  them.  Some- 
body might  have  the  decency  to  wake  up  and  ask  how  you're- 
feeling.  Eternity  passes  and  morning  comes  and  the  day 
nurses  and  three  pieces  of  bread-and-butter  and  a  cup  of 
tea.  You  are  profoundly  grateful:  you  feel  as  if  you  haven't 
had  anything  to  eat  for  a  century.  Another  (and  rather 
shorter)  eternity  passes — and  lunch  time  comes.  An  ach- 
ing void  inside  inclines  you  to  look  favourably  on  the  bavril 
Sister  says  you  may  have  because  you've  only  felt  and  not 
been  sick.  (That's  clever  of  you,  anyway,  you  feel.)  Your 
afternoon  is  better.  You  say  you  are  fond  of  cats:  someone 
rakes  up  a  very  plain  tabby,  not  a  distinguished  specimen 
of  her  kind,  but  sociable  and  understanding.  You  begin  to 
tell  her  all  about  a  cat  named  Mark  Antony  when  Sister 
comes  in  and  says,  "  Cats  are  not  allowed  in  the  ward,  you 
know,"  and  spoils  the  story.  However,  Sister  (who  is  really 
human)  says  you  may  be  permitted  to  stroke  the  plain  tabby 
once  a  day.  That  comforts  you  during  the  third  eternity 
that  passes  before  it  is  dinner-time.  You  get  on  better  this 
time  and  behave  quite  well  over  fish  and  custard.  All  the 
same  you're  a  bit  bored.  You  can't  read  because  it  tires 
you  to  sit  up.  You're  tired  of  the  hospital  sounds  and  of  the 
cough  of  the  man  in  the  corner.  Someone  comes  and  dresses 
your  arm  and  brings  you  a  letter,  not  from  the  Person  Who 
Matters  Most.  All  the  same  you  try  to  be  grateful.  .  .  . 

Another  break  here.     And  the  next  day's  date. 


WASTE  SHORES  333 

19th  April,  1916. 

Night  comes  again.  The  lights  are  lowered.  You  lie 
there  high  and  dry  on  the  rocky  coast  of  wake  fulness,  and  a 
bitterer  tide  comes  up.  It  floats  you  presently  out  to  sleep 
...  a  troubled  sea,  somehow,  on  which  you  toss  about  like 
an  eggshell  craft  on  Niagara.  The  turning  up  of  the  lights 
sweeps  you  again  to  shore.  Night-probationers  rattle  in  with 
pails,  clearing  up  before  they  go  off  duty.  It  is  certainly 
morning.  You  feet  it  is  only  reasonable  to  suppose  you 
have  been  asleep. 

You  get  some  breakfast  this  morning  and  somebody  brings 
you  the  paper.  You  must  be  belter  because  you  hunt  for  the 
book  reviews  and  are  annoyed  when  the  doctor  comes  in  and 
interrupts  your  reading.  .  .  . 

To-day  is  Primrose  Day.  The  French  sky  is  blue  .  .  . 
April  air  comes  in  at  the  window  .  .  .  Do  you  remember 
that  place  in  Kent  two  years  ago  where  the  primroses  grew 
all  along  the  roadside  —  like  a  yellow  sea?  Beneden,  didn't 
they  call  it?  A  nurse  has  just  brought  a  big  bowl  of  them 
in  and  put  them  down  where  I  can  see  them.  If  someone 
comes  near  before  the  letters  are  collected  for  post,  I'll 
beg  one  or  two  to  slip  in  with  this.  .  .  . 

But  evidently  no  one  did,  because  there  were  no  primroses 
in  the  envelope,  though  Helena  turned  it  inside  out  to  make 
sure. 


There  began  here,  for  Helena,  a  period  of  comparative  peace. 
The  relief  of  knowing  that  for  the  moment  he  was  out  of  things 
was  tremendous,  though  there  were  days  when  the  fact  that 
she  was  happy  went  some  part  of  the  way  towards  making  her 
wretched.  Because  he  was  safe,  she  had  ceased  to  care.  Was 
that  it?  It  was  what  young  Millington  had  said  of  women  in 
one  of  his  bitter  poems.  Was  it  true  of  her?  She  did  not 
think  so  ...  hoped  that  it  was  only  (as  Evey  had  said  long 
ago)  that  one  cannot  go  on  "caring"  (like  that)  all  the  time. 
One  had  to  forget  when  one  could.  .  .  . 


334  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

And  that  thought  of  Hilary  in  his  white  bed,  tended  by  the 
cheery  nurse  v/ho  had  written  to  Helena,  was  apt  at  times  to 
crowd  out  all  other  thought  whatsoever.  It  set  free  some  part 
of  oneself  that  had  lived  in  a  prison  house  —  the  part  that  is 
gay  and  merry  and  young  and  wants  theatres  and  concerts 
and  laughter. 

So  Helena  and  Evey  made  a  list  of  the  few  "  possible  "  plays 
that  existed  amid  a  welter  of  revues  and  "  spy  "  plays  and 
went  to  see  them.  And  Estelle  secured  tickets  for  recitals  and 
took  Helena  off  to  hear  them. 

Just  occasionally  they  went  down  to  the  new  sort  of  church 
in  Pimlicoi  and  regretted  the  departed  choir  (that  had  sung 
Palestrina's  Mass  to  English  literature)  and,  sometimes,  were 
disappointed  with  the  discourse,  because  a  plague  of  eugenics 
and  race-culture  had  descended  upon  the  place,  as  tiresome  as 
all  other  plagues  and  as  hard  to  "  dodge."  Twice  within  a  few 
weeks  Helena  and  Evey  ran  up  against  the  same  enthusiastic 
eugenist  whom  they  found  entertaining  enough  without  in  the 
least  agreeing  with  what  he  said.  Humanity  as  one  big 
stud  farm  did  not  seem  to  appeal  to  either  of  them.  Be- 
sides, as  Evey  said,  "  Why  should  one  go  on  with  this?  It 
was  a  rotten  thing  to  do  —  to  bring  more  people  into  this !  " 

*'  Have  you  ever  wanted  any  children  ?  "  she  asked  Helena 
suddenly. 

"Once.  Quite  a  big  desire,  too;  but  the  war  killed  it. 
Though  I  think  it  was  badly  stunned  before  that.  Hilary,  you 
see,  would  have  it  there  is  no  place  in  this  world  for  illegitimate 
children  —  and  ours  would  have  been." 

"  But  he  wouldn't  always  have  thought  so.  He  changed 
about  so  many  other  things,  why  shouldn't  he  have  changed 
about  that?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  have.  There's  something  so  terrific, 
somehow,  about  history  repeating  itself.  Hilary's  mother  ran 
away  with  a  lover,  you  know,  when  he  was  about  six  or  seven. 
He  remembers  her  .  .  .  things  about  her  .  .  .  the  way  she 
used  to  speak,  how  she  used  to  stand  in  front  of  his  nursery 
fire,  holding  out  a  foot  to  the  flames.  .  .  .  Things  like  that. 


WASTE  SHORES  335 

Queer,  isn't  it,  such  a  baby  should  remember  attitudes  and 
tricks  of  speech.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  said  Evey,  "  but  then  one  does  remember  at  six  or 
seven,  ever  so  clearly.  It's  things  that  come  later  that  get 
smudged.  What  happened  to  Mrs.  Sargent?  " 

"  She  killed  herself  rather  than  bring  an  illegitimate  child 
into  the  world!  It's  wrong,  somehow;  it  doesn't  fit  in  with 
the  rest  you  know  of  her.  You  can't  imagine  her  crumpling 
up  like  that.  She  was  such  a  vivid  creature  —  so  tremendously 
alive,  like  Hilary.  You  simply  can't  imagine  them  ever  coming 
to  an  end.  You  know  that  portrait  of  her  in  the  London  .  .  . 
Mary  Hilary  she  was.  It's  idiotic  that  she  should  have  drowned 
herself  in  a  pond  —  ignominious." 

"  Why  did  she  do  it,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  think  she'd  had  a  bad  time  generally.  People  did,  in 
those  days,  if  they  offended  Mrs.  Grundy.  Besides,  there  was 
Hilary.  She  knew  her  husband  and  his  sister  (there  were  only 
the  two  of  them)  would  never  forgive  her,  and  that  they'd  get 
at  her  through  the  child,  in  the  mean  way  adults  have.  Ralph 
Sargent  wouldn't  divorce  her  and  she  was  never  allowed  to  see 
the  child.  He'd  have  had  her  back  if  she'd  have  gone,  but  she 
wouldn't.  They'd  been  wretched  together.  I  suppose,  in  the 
end,  she  just  got  tired  .  .  .  felt  she  couldn't  go  on.  What 
makes  us  do  things,  do  you  suppose?  Chance?  You  remem- 
ber that  book  of  Conrad's?  " 

Evey  did. 

"  But  do  you  believe  in  '  chance '?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  do.  It's  much  more  likely  there's  a 
reason  for  things  if  we  go  deeply  enough  .  .  .  get  back  far 
enough.  Usually  we  don't,  of  course.  It's  much  easier  to  say 
*  Oh,  chance!  '  But  isn't  it  perhaps  just  the  urge  of  things  — 
hundreds  of  things  —  that  have  gone  before?  Things  done, 
said,  suffered  down  the  ages?  *  Invisible  tides!  '  That  phrase 
of  Swinburne's  gives  it  you.  You  don't  read  Swinburne,  do 
you?  You  should.  Read  the  Hymn  to  Proserpine.  You'll 
find  that  phrase  there.  Invisible  tides!  Everywhere.  In  our 
own  lives,  in  the  world  of  nations  .  .  .  that  you  can't  pull 
against,  that  tug  at  you,  this  way  and  that  .  .  .  that  make  war 
and  peace  and  tragedy  and  unhappiness  .  .  .  and  us" 

The  talk  ran  on. 


336  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

8 

Easter  came,  the  Easter  flowers  and  ;he  Easter  rebellion  in 
Ireland,  and  Helena  found  that  she  likec  the  world  somewhat 
less  than  she  had  thought.  And  Stella  and  Hilary  Elizabeth 
were  in  Chelsea  again,  and  Sir  Roger  Casement  in  the  Tower. 
Mr.  Asquith  went  hurriedly  to  Belfast  and  Evey  and  Helena 
with  more  leisure  to  Burlington  House,  where  hung  two  water- 
colours  of  Hilary's  which  Helena  had  begged  him  to  let  her 
send  in. 

Empire  Day  passed  and  the  Conscription  Bill,  and  things 
began  to  look  black  for  Stephen.  An  important  morning  paper 
suddenly  found  itself  without  an  Irish  correspondent  and 
hastily  appointed  another.  No  one  knew  what  had  happened 
to  Denis  O'Connell:  nobody  ever  knew.  He  just  dropped  out. 

Then,  suddenly,  Walter  got  well  enough  to  go  back  to  France, 
Lieutenant  Millington  followed  him,  and  Helena  heard  that 
Hilary's  shoulder  was  still  giving  trouble.  It  began  to  look  as 
though  they  would  send  him  home,  after  all.  Joyful  news, 
that,  despite  the  thought  of  the  poor  shoulder. 

The  casualty  lists  grew  longer.  The  Labour  Leader  pub- 
lished actual  figures  week  by  week  that  left  you  stunned  and 
appalled.  You  wished  someone  would  suppress  the  placards, 
for  the  war  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  that  effect  upon  you: 
you  were  always  wishing  vaguely  that  somebody  would  sup- 
press something  (or  someone)  somewhere. 

In  France  things,  as  Mrs.  Ellingham  would  say,  were  "  im- 
pending." The  battle  of  Verdun  still  raged:  the  heights  of 
Vimy  were  gained  and  lost,  and  more  men  went  out  and  the 
first  "  Derby  "  groups  were  called  up. 

And  Conrad  Howe  came  home  on  leave  and  in  cantankerous 
mood.  He  thought  London  had  deteriorated  and  disliked  all 
women  save  Helena  and  Evey  —  so  he  said.  Oxford  Street 
appalled  him  and  war  widows,  especially  Pamela.  He  spent  a 
lot  of  time  at  the  studio,  and  wondered  (audibly)  what  he  had 
ever  seen  in  Dagmar,  and  he  made  a  little  relief  of  Helena's 
profile,  cast  it  himself,  and  hung  it  up  for  her.  And  when  it 
was  finished,  he  shook  the  dust  of  London  from  his  feet  and 
went  back  (as  Evey  put  it)  to  the  comparative  peace  of  the 
trenches. 


WASTE  SHORES  337 

In  England  was  summer  again  and  a  white  and  gold  drift 
of  hawthorn  and  laburnum;  the  cool  voices  of  the  wind  in 
the  trees;  the  first  red  roses,  white  butterflies,  bluebells  and 
the  scent  of  syringa  and  lilac;  fields,  out  Chessington  way, 
of  sorrel  and  ox-eye  daisies,  and  skies  of  deep  blue;  massed 
trees  and  waving  grasses.  Purple  nights  with  a  silver  moon 
and  dawns  of  pearl  and  opal. 

And  Hilary's  shoulder  grew  suddenly  better,  so  that  he  did 
not  come  home,  after  all,  but  went  instead  up  the  line. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 


AT  the   beginning   of   September,   Hilary   wrote  that  he 
would  shortly  be  sending  some  things  which  he  wanted 
Helena  to  lock  away  for  him  without  opening.     They 
would  be  addressed  to  her,  but  marked  so  that  she  might 
recognise  them. 

A  week  later  they  began  to  arrive.  Helena  locked  them  up 
with  the  air  of  a  conspirator,  and  noticed  that  they  bore  the 
London  postmark,  so  they  had  evidently  been  smuggled  through 
by  men  coming  on  leave,  and  she  wondered  why.  But  whatever 
they  were  they  would  wait.  Hilary  said  that  of  them  —  that 
they  would  wait  until  they  might  read  them  together,  and  his 
letters,  as  ever,  went  on  being  cheerful  and  whimsical  and 
humorous.  Helena  even  wondered  if  he  had  been  able,  at 
last,  to  grow  a  pachyderm;  if  he  had  managed,  somehow,  to 
shut  up  some  part  of  himself  so  that,  perhaps,  he  suffered  less 
than  she  and  Evey  had  believed  he  must. 

The  year  crept  on  through  a  mild  October  to  a  Parliamentary 
upheaval  in  December;  and  rumours  of  peace  overtures  from 
Germany  and  a  Peace  Note  from  America;  but  nothing  came 
of  either.  And  December  was  wet  and  foggy  and  would  have 
depressed  you,  anyhow. 

Christmas  brought  more  fog  and  the  New  Year  a  thrilling 
story  out  of  Russia  of  a  Muscovite  monk,  and  war  bread  and 
very  little  sugar  and  the  east  wind  and  snow;  and  The  Aristo- 
crat at  St.  James's.  Things  seemed  quiet  on  Hilary's  part  of 
the  line,  and  Helena  and  Evey  worked  at  their  speed  practice 
in  the  evening,  to  keep  them  from  thinking  that  perhaps  they 
might  not  be.  Horrible  things  happened  at  sea,  and  the  Revo- 
lution in  Russia.  And  it  snowed  on  and  off  all  March  and  the 
Penn  Ponds  in  Richmond  Park  were  frozen.  Skating  on 
them,  Evey  caught  a  chill  and  had  to  go  to  bed. 

338 


WASTE  SHORES  339 

It  was  at  the  end  of  March  that  Hilary  wrote  to  say  he 
might  be  coming  home  "  any  day  "  on  leave.  They  were  to 
look  for  him  each  morning  in  case  he  might  be  coming  up  the 
road.  He  and  the  primroses  could  come  back  to  England  to- 
gether. .  .  . 

But  April  arrived  in  the  midst  of  winter  and  with  more  frost 
and  snow,  but  by  the  new  law  it  was  "  summer  time,"  so  Helena 
put  on  the  clocks,  and  Evey  got  better  and  the  Americans  came 
into  the  war.  But  no  Hilary  to  Chelsea. 

From  Yorkshire  Cissie  wrote  that  Walter  had  been  wounded 
and  was  in  hospital  in  Wales,  and  that  Jerome's  knee  had  given 
out  and  that  he  had  had  to  come  home.  They  saw  him  drive 
past  in  the  mornings  in  a  new  Courtney,  painted  red,  and  if  you 
met  him  on  foot  you  saw  that  he  limped. 

Life  went  on  pretty  much  this  year  as  it  had  last.  Out- 
wardly, at  least,  the  war  did  not  seem  to  make  very  much 
difference  to  people,  except  that  food  was  dear,  and  clothes,  and 
the  streets  dark  at  nights,  and  there  were  gaps.  .  .  .  People 
wore  an  air,  somehow,  of  having  accepted  the  war  as  part  of 
life.  One  can,  in  time,  get  used  to  anything.  Only  Helena 
couldn't.  She  could  not  accept  .  .  .  could  not  forget.  Hilary 
was  in  France  and  her  heart  was  there  with  him.  This  death 
in  life!  How  much  longer  was  it  to  go  on? 

The  days  slipped  by  and  suddenly  it  was  Primrose  Day  again, 
bringing  with  it  poignant  bitter-sweet  memories,  but  no  Hilary. 
And  what  was  worse,  no  letters.  And  no  mysterious  flat  pack- 
ages. Nothing.  A  week  passed  and  still  nothing.  .  .  .  Just 
silence  —  and,  at  night,  Helena's  quiet  sobbing  in  the  dark.  . .  . 


It  was  on  the  last  day  in  April  that  Nelly  came  in  en  route 
for  Woolwich  and  talked  pleasantly  about  nothing  for  ten 
minutes  and  looked  worried.  Nelly  was  one  of  the  people  who 
had  "  guessed  "  long  ago. 

"  Come  down  to  the  door  with  me,"  she  said  to  Evey,  as  she 
pulled  on  her  gloves. 

Helena  and  Evey  had  only  just  finished  tea.  Helena  picked 
up  the  tray  and  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  and  Evey  went 
down  with  Nelly. 


340  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  Look  here,"  Nelly  said  at  the  door,  "  they've  sent  a  letter 
of  mine  back.  .  .  ." 

"A  letter  .  .  .  whose  letter?  " 

"  Mine,  to  Hilary.  I  came  in  to  see  if  any  of  Lena's  had 
come  back.  But  you  just  can't  ask  her  things  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"  Nothing's  come,"  said  Evey.     "  We  can't  hear  anything." 

Nelly  looked  relieved. 

"  Oh,  it's  probably  all  right  then.  He's  got  moved  up  the 
line  somewhere,  I  expect  .  .  .  lost  sight  of.  Some  mistake, 
anyhow.  These  things  happen.  .  .  .  Don't  \  say  anything  to 
Lena,  and,  look  here,  can't  you  do  something  with  her?  Make 
her  go  out.  ...  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  her." 

"  You  can't  do  anything  with  Lena  when  she  shuts  herself 
up  like  that;  though  you  rap  at  the  door  till  your  knuckles 
ache  she  won't  let  you  in.  She's  like  that:  she  always  hides 
what  she  feels.  ...  It  was  just  the  same  when  Hilary  first 
went  .  .  .  and  when  he  went  back  after  leave.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  .  .  .  that  awful  mask.  Don't  say  anything  about 
the  letter.  I  expect  it's  all  right,  only  one  gets  worried.  .  .  ." 

Evey  went  upstairs  again. 

Helena  had  finished  her  washing  up  and  sat  reading  the 
English  Review.  Evey  waited  for  her  to  speak,  to  ask  what 
Nelly  wanted.  She  said  nothing,  however.  Just  looked  up 
and  smiled. 

"  Nelly's  been  to  the  Coliseum  to  see  Madame  Navarro  — 
Mary  Anderson  you  know.  Some  charity  performance.  .  .  ." 

"Oh  yes.     Was  she  good?  " 

"  Better  than  the  play,  Nelly  says." 

In  the  presence  of  Helena's  calm  face  these  admirably  told 
lies  seemed  suddenly  unnecessary.  Evey  stopped  telling  them 
and  presently  she  and  Helena  settled  down  to  their  speed 
practice. 

The  weeks  passed  —  six  of  them  came  and  went,  empty  of 
hand,  and  at  the  end  of  them  Vivien  dug  Brian  out  of  his 
Government  Office  to  pull  strings.  He  pulled  them  inde- 
fatigably  and  with  no  result.  But  he  did  more  than  pull 
strings.  He  waited  hours  at  the  War  Office  in  a  long  queue 
.  .  .  still  with  no  result.  More  and  more  interviews  and  no 
news  even  then  —  save  that  the  fighting  round  Arras  had  been 


WASTE  SHORES  341 

long  and  costly,  which  you  could  read  for  yourself  if  you  were 
so  minded  in  your  morning  paper. 


Then,  with  that  appalling  suddenness  with  which  the  thing 
waited  for  always  does  come,  Hilary  was  posted  by  the  War 
Office  as  missing,  and  Helena's  letters  to  Hilary  came  back  in 
a  batch. 

All  her  life  Evey  always  remembered  how  they  found  them, 
lying  there  on  the  doormat,  and  the  way  Helena  took  them  up, 
turned  them  over  in  her  hands  with  a  little  hopeless  gesture, 
most  infinitely  tender  and  pathetic,  and  went  on  up  the  stairs 
without  a  word. 

There  in  the  blue  studio  she  sat  till  long  after  midnight, 
saying  nothing.  It  was  her  silence  that  Evey  found  terrifying: 
that  made  her  chatter  hopefully  when  hope  seemed  dead. 
Returned  letters  were  not  as  definite  as  all  that:  the  word 
"missing"  left  loopholes:  "no  news  was  good  news"  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  useless  cliches.  They  fell  as  flat  as  the  un- 
necessary lies.  Helena  only  sat  there,  her  hand  on  Mark 
Antony's  soft  head,  her  face  like  a  stone.  You  couldn't  get 
near  her.  Evey  was  right:  you  might  rap  until  your  knuckles 
were  sore.  She  would  not  let  you  in:  doubtful,  even,  if  she 
would  hear.  .  .  . 

Evey  got  her  to  bed  presently,  brought  her  some  hot  milk 
and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  while  she  drank  it. 

"  You  look  so  tired.  Do  try  to  sleep.  Don't  you  feel  that 
you  could?  " 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  never  sleep  again !  " 


June  passed,  leaving  a  record  of  fine  weather,  of  battles  and 
still  more  battles:  of  abdications  and  resignations  in  high 
places  and  of  a  daylight  raid  on  London.  She  had  brought 
sorrow  to  many,  a  Zeppelin  to  destruction  on  the  Kentish 
coast  and  the  first  Americans  to  France. 

Other  things,  too.     Colour  and  perfume  and  the  drifting 


342  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

song  of  birds:  clear  skies  and  dusky  woods:  green  paths  and 
the  roaming  winds.  White  daisies,  buttercups  and  sweetbriar 
and  honeysuckle;  the  deep  unfathomable  summer  night  and 
a  yellow  lantern  of  a  moon.  .  .  . 

But  one  was  ungrateful,  forgot  these  things  and  hoped  July 
would  be  better. 

July  came.  She  brought  another  daylight  raid  and  more 
battles,  and  more  Americans  to  France  and  news  of  the  Rus- 
sians retreating.  .  .  .  Lime  blossoms,  too,  came  with  her,  and 
the  scent  of  them  and  of  new  mown  hay,  and  roses  in  the  gar- 
dens, and  a  large  moon,  unbelievably  calm  and  white.  .  .  . 

August  came  and  summer's  "  overplus,"  the  scent  of  the 
deep  red  roses  and  the  colour  that  blinds. 

For  Helena  the  record  of  those  months  from  June  to  Sep- 
tember was  merely  a  record  of  day  succeeding  day,  each  a  little 
blanker  than  the  other,  with  hope  fighting  every  inch  of  the 
way  and  despair  coming  up  redly  like  an  angry  dawn.  She 
fought  on  along  a  darkening  road,  with  panic  pressing  her 
forward  and  despair's  spear  at  her  heart. 

Hilary  lived  —  somewhere,  somehow  —  because  he  simply 
could  not  be  dead.  You  could  not  imagine  him  dead  —  he  who 
had  said  that  death  was  something  which  happened  to  other 
people,  and  had  believed  it.  But  sometimes  the  point  of 
despair's  sharp  spear  was  unbearable  and  she  turned  to  ask 
men  in  uniform  who  sat  next  to  her  in  'bus  or  tube  how 
long  one  might  dare  to  "  hope  "  after  that  word  "  missing  " 
had  come  through.  They  gave  her,  most  of  them,  six  months: 
two,  greatly  daring,  gave  her  nine.  For  anything  might  have 
happened  after  a  battle  like  that  round  Arras,  they  told  her; 
and  a  lot  of  things,  too,  about  prisoners  they  had  known  or 
had  heard  of. 

So  Helena  struggled  on  through  the  shadows  and  Brian  went 
on  worrying  the  War  Office,  while  August  and  September 
waned  and  passed.  October  came  —  season  of  bombs  and  gun- 
fire frightfulness. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  month  Philip  Roscoe  came  home  with 
fever  and  suddenly  there  was  considerably  less  of  Evey,  and 
Estelle  came  frequently  to  the  studio  of  an  evening  and  played 
to  Helena  on  Hilary's  black  Bliithner  grand. 

On  one  such  evening  Helena  took  out  the  mysterious  flat 


WASTE  SHORES  343 

packages  Hilary  had  sent,  cut  the  string  of  each  and  drew  out 
its  contents.  A  passion  to  know  what  Hilary  had  written  was 
upon  her,  but  when  she  had  arranged  the  pages  in  order,  she 
sat  with  them  on  her  lap,  unable  to  get  beyond  the  words 
Hilary  had  written  there  at  the  head  of  the  topmost:  "The 
Diary  of  a  Soldier  in  France,  1916."  Her  courage  had  ebbed 
down  and  out.  She  had  to  wait  until  it  drifted  back  again.  It 
took  some  time,  but  presently  she  managed  to  begin. 

While  Estelle  played  Helena  read  through  this  diary  of  a 
sensitive  soul  caught  in  the  horrors  and  abominations 
of  Armageddon.  And  when  the  music  stopped  she  still  read 
on. 

"Finished  reading?  "  Estelle  asked  from  the  piano. 

"Yes." 

"Then  may  I  turn  out  the  light?  It's  so  much  nicer  to 
play  in  the  dark!  " 

The  light  went  out  and  suddenly  the  room  was  full  of 
shadows.  A  blue  flame  danced  along  the  walls  and  across  the 
floor,  and  Helena  went  down  into  hell.  .  .  . 

At  Hilary's  piano  Estelle  played,  beautifully,  the  Sonata 
Appassionata. 

But  Helena  did  not  hear:  it  was  dark  in  hell  and  someone 
had  slammed  a  heavy  door  behind  her.  The  Sonata  Appas- 
sionata came  to  an  end,  but  Estelle  went  on  playing  —  scraps  of 
Bach,  Schubert  and  old  airs  from  Purcell;  and  presently  the 
heavy  door  opened  again  and  Helena  emerged. 

"What  a  smell  of  burning  paper!  " 

Estelle's  voice  rose,  bell-like,  over  the  soft  melody  of  Pur- 
cell's  Knotting  Song, 

Helena,  on  her  knees  before  the  fire,  was  feeding  it  with  the 
pages  she  had  been  reading  —  that  had  dragged  her  down  there 
into  the  pit. 

He  had  not  meant  her  to  know  .  .  .  had  written  her  those 
cheerful  sunny  letters  while  he  suffered  —  that.  He  had  writ- 
ten it  down  not  that  she  should  read  it  there  in  misery,  but  that 
later  they  might  read  it  together  when  the  thing  was  done  and 
life  began  afresh.  It  was  to  be  a  testimony  to  the  truth  when 
people  were  forgetting  and  historians  were  lying  again. 
Neither  we  nor  any  child  of  ours,  Deirdre,  must  forget  what 
war  really  looks  like  without  its  trappings  of  romance.  The 


344  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

only  hope  for  the  world  is  that  we  never  allow  people  to  for- 
get. .  .  . 

She,  certainly,  would  never  forget.  No  child  of  theirs 
would  ever  be  born,  and  he  who  had  suffered  these  things  was 
dead.  .  .  . 

Down  there  in  hell  she  had  seen  that  fact  written  clearly  in 
letters  of  blood  that  flamed  across  the  dark.  And  the  world 
was  appallingly  empty. 

It  was  not  good  to  be  left  behind.  Barbara  was  right. 
Better  the  arena  and  death  —  than  this  vast  emptiness.  Even 
for  the  young,  who  ought  scarcely  to  know  that  death  is  ... 
or  what  it  is. 


From  that  day  Helena,  to  Evey,  in  some  subtle  fashion 
was  changed.  Difficult  to  say  how,  precisely,  save  that 
hope  had  gone  from  her:  though  she  never  mentioned  the 
word,  you  could  see  she  believed  that  Hilary  was  dead.  And 
some  little  piece  of  Helena  had  died,  too,  and  had  got  itself 
buried  in  Hilary's  grave.  What  was  left  of  her,  bruised  and 
battered,  struggled  up  to  look  out  at  a  strange  new  empty  world 
and  shuddered  eternally  away  from  it.  And  a  drama  not  of 
resignation  but  of  rebellion  was  being  played. 

It  was  true,  of  course,  as  Barbara  said,  that  one  cannot  live 
on  rebellion;  but  it  was  also  true  that  Helena  could  not  teach 
her  heart  submission;  could  not  submerge  the  individual  into 
issues  vastly  greater  and  (probably)  more  important.  Like 
any  Wells  heroine,  she  wanted  passionately  "  her  "  things:  was 
possessed  of  a  fierce  resentment  against  life  and  fate,  a  deep 
hatred  of  man-made  statecraft  and  "  civilisation."  The  futility 
of  it  all  gripped  her  by  the  throat,  choking  her  as  Hilary's 
Diary  had  choked  the  fire  that  night.  Life  had  no  longer  any 
meaning  or  sense,  but  had  become  a  blind  unreasoning  force 
towards  which  humanity  lifted  impotent  hands  of  supplica- 
tion. .  .  . 

Ursula,  writing  from  her  Yorkshire  hills,  with  bitter  griefs 
of  her  own  to  staunch,  attempted,  at  least,  to  give  it  a  meaning. 
It  was  not  her  fault  she  did  not  succeed:  for  there  Helena  held 
the  trump  card.  With  those  sentences  from  the  Diary  written 
in  blood  upon  her  heart  she  smiled  bitterly,  a  little  cynically, 


WASTE  SHORES  345 

pr  rhaps,  at  Ursula's  sacrificial  halo.  They  died,  these  dear 
people  we  loved,  as  they  would  have  wished.  I  do  not  think 
we  ought,  in  our  grief,  to  let  ourselves  forget  that. 

Even  Evey  took  something  of  that  line. 

"  But,  dear,  he  chose  to  go.  He  went  freely.  He  wouldn't 
have  been  out  of  it  ...  with  so  many  others  in.  ...  It  is 
true,  so  far,  isn't  it?  " 

But  Helena  wouldn't  admit  it.  Evey  and  Ursula  didn't 
know  —  hadn't  read  —  that,  the  thing  that  had  choked  the  fire. 
And  sometimes  she  wished  she  had  not  read  it  either,  because, 
somehow,  "  that "  was  a  thing  you  couldn't  fight  against. 
Always  it  twisted  the  weapon  from  your  hand,  turned  it  against 
you,  and  wrenched  open  your  wound. 


Stephen  might  have  helped  her  here,  if  he  had  been  available, 
but  back  in  September  Stephen  had  carried  his  ideals  into 
prison,  where  you  felt  they  would  be  even  more  uncomfortable 
than  they  had  been  outside  in  the  world.  Stella,  who  wanted  to 
know  for  certain  whether  Stephen  and  his  ideals  were  really 
within,  had  waited  at  the  prison  gates  in  a  downpour  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  because  warders  were  not  there  to  answer 
questions  and  objected  to  doing  so,  anyway.  After  which  she 
and  Hilary  Elizabeth  caught  the  next  train  to  Brighton,  doomed 
to  their  relatives'  pity  and  hospitality  but  keeping  bright 
faces;  Hilary  Elizabeth  because  her  face  was  always  bright, 
and  Stella  because  Stephen  had  enjoined  it.  Stella  believed 
in  Stephen  without  understanding  him.  She  knew  he  could 
not  do  anything  mean  or  paltry:  by  no  means  clever  or  bril- 
liant, she  had  nevertheless  learned  the  lesson  some  of  her 
cleverer  brothers  and  sisters  had  yet  to  learn  —  the  granting 
of  sincerity  and  nobility  of  purpose  to  those  we  think  mis- 
guided. 

It  was  in  January,  when  the  snowdrops  and  scyllas  were 
showing  and  the  world,  all  black  and  white,  was  like  an  ex- 
tended etching,  that  Helena  dropped  quietly  out  of  the  fight. 
The  first  sign  came  when  she  sent  in  her  resignation  to  Mr. 
Bletchington  and  announced  the  fact  quite  quietly  to  Evey  the 
next  morning  at  breakfast. 


346  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  But  why?  "  Evey  asked. 

"  Because  I  can't  go  on." 

"  Helping  him,  you  mean?  " 

Helena  nodded. 

"  It's  just  got  to  stop  ...  I  can't  go  on.  I'm  leaving  on 
Friday." 

"  Didn't  he  try  to  keep  you?  " 

"  He  offered  me  a  month's  holiday  .  .  .  told  me  to  come  and 
see  him  at  the  end  of  it!"  She  laughed.  "As  though 
a  month  would  make  any  difference!  Or  a  thousand 
months!  " 

Evey  was  worried.  While  Helena  worked  things  were  not 
so  hopeless.  Work  kept  you  sane.  Very  pale  and  thin,  Helena 
looked  as  though  she  wanted  a  holiday,  but  Evey,  hardening  her 
heart,  was  convinced  that  was  the  very  thing  she  must  not  have. 
She  simply  must  not  be  allowed  to  be  idle,  must  not  be  allowed 
to  think.  But  for  all  that,  Evey  was  powerless.  Helena  gave 
no  indication  of  finding  other  work,  though  she  reiterated  her 
determination  not  to  return  to  Mr.  Bletchington.  Evey  sug- 
gested Yorkshire,  thinking  of  Ursula,  forgetting  Jerome. 
Helena  must  have  forgotten  him,  too,  for  a  look  of  utter  wist- 
fulness  crept  into  her  eyes.  Then  she  remembered  and  shook 
her  head. 

Sometimes  Evey  was  worried  not  only  about  Helena,  but 
about  the  future.  That  was  a  thing  Helena  would  not  dis- 
cuss. She  wanted  just  to  stay  where  she  was  ...  let  things 
drift. 

"  But,  Lena,  we  can't  always.  When  things  are  settled  .  .  . 
we've  got  to  decide  something." 

She  meant  (but  could  not  say)  that  soon  Hilary  would  be 
presumed  dead  and  John  Wyatt,  who  was  Hilary's  executor, 
would  be  granted  probate,  and  his  estate  wound  up.  Helena 
and  she  couldn't  go  on  living  there  always,  even  if,  as  Evey 
supposed,  Hilary  had  left  his  inheritance  to  Helena,  the  thing 
would  be  unwise.  But  things  of  that  sort  did  not  interest 
Helena  any  longer.  What  did  it  matter  where  one  lived  or 
what  one  did?  The  only  thing  that  mattered  was  —  how  long 
before  one  began  to  forget,  before  one  ceased  to  suffer,  like 
this? 

It  seemed  to  Evey  that  in  those  first  three  weeks  of  January, 


WASTE  SHORES  347 

nineteen-eighteen,  Helena  floated  rapidly  down  stream,  borne 
along  by  Heaven  alone  knew  what  invisible  tides  of  grief  and 
apathy.  Nothing  happened  to  mark  one  day  from  another. 
They  had,  all  of  them,  a  hideous  sinister  sameness,  so  that  you 
hated  and  distrusted  them.  For  Helena  there  were  a  lot  of 
days  to  come,  because  she  was  young  and  strong  and  was  not 
going  to  die:  one  did  not  die  by  wishing.  The  future  was 
there,  unknown  and  unknowable,  lying  deeply  in  shadow  and 
Helena  was  too  tired  to  think  or  worry  about  it.  The  day 
was  enough.  In  it,  let  us  eat,  drink  and  not  expect  to  be 
merry.  For  merriment  was  dead,  like  "  the  battalions  that 
were  youth." 

"  What  do  you  do  all  day  ?  "  Evey  asked  her  once,  coming 
in  from  the  office  and  finding  her  there  by  the  fire  with  idle 
hands  resting  listlessly  in  her  lap. 

"Walk,"  Helena  said. 

"But  where?     You  can't  walk  all  the  day." 

"  I  can.  It  makes  you  tired  if  you  walk  long  enough.  I 
like  to  be  tired  because  then  things  don't  matter.  Nothing 
matters.  And  sometimes  you  can  sleep." 

Helena  did  not,  much,  these  days.     Evey  knew  that. 

"  But  where  do  you  go?  " 

"  Oh,  anywhere.  It  doesn't  matter  where.  Richmond, 
Kew  .  .  .  Epsom  .  .  .  Chessington  .  .  .  Jordan's.  Yesterday  it 
was  some  place  called  Edmonton.  .  .  ." 

"Good  Lord,"  said  Evey.     "Why?" 

"  No  reason.  A  'bus  was  going  there.  I  got  on  it.  The 
man  next  to  me  said  it  was  the  ugliest  'bus  route  in  London.  I 
think  he  was  right." 

"  Where  else  do  you  go?  " 

"Sometimes  to  the  British  Museum." 

"You  can't.     It's  shut." 

"  The  Reading  Room  isn't." 

"  But  you  haven't  got  a  Reader's  ticket." 

"  I  say  I  have.  They  believe  me.  At  least  they  did  until 
yesterday.  .  .  .  That's  why  I  went  to  Edmonton." 

Then  one  wretched  day  Phil  came  across  her  at  Victoria, 
watching  a  leave  train  come  in. 

"  This  can't  go  on,"  Evey  wailed  to  Phil  when  he  told  her. 
"  Do  think  of  something." 


348  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

But  Phil  couldn't.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  he  was  going  to 
France  again  at  the  end  of  the  month. 

"  I'd  rather  she'd  taken  it  like  Pamela,"  Evey  wailed  on. 
"  She  felt  nothing.  Nothing  at  all." 

"Anything's  better  than  that  she  should  be  like  Pamela," 
Phil  said  with  decision.  He  detested  Pamela. 

"  But  it  isn't.  At  least  Pamela  doesn't  suffer.  And  Lena 
does.  The  old  Lena  we  loved  is  dead.  Dead  and  buried  .  .  . 
in  Hilary's  grave,  wherever  it  is.  The  new  one  we  can't  even 
get  at.  She  doesn't  care  about  us  any  more  at  all." 


The  crisis  came,  however,  towards  the  end  of  the  month, 
on  a  Monday  evening.  Helena  was  out  when  Phil  and  Evey 
came  in  to  tea,  and  they  had  their  meal  without  her.  Presently, 
in  the  way  anxious  people  have,  Phil  went  down  to  the  door  to 
look  for  her,  as  though  that  could  hurry  her  up.  He  was  still 
there  when  the  first  indications  of  the  raid  came,  and  Evey  put 
on  her  own  hat  and  coat,  seized  Philip's  and  tore  down  after 
him. 

"  We've  got  to  go  and  look  for  her,"  Evey  said. 

"  But  where?  "  the  distracted  Phil  wanted  to  know. 

"  We'll  try  Victoria  first.     Come  on." 

Not  too  easily  they  reached  Victoria  — -  a  strange  unfamiliar 
place  with  only  a  stray  porter  or  two  and  no  trains.  Certainly 
no  Helena. 

They  made  for  the  street,  and  there  the  specials  met  them, 
turning  them  back.  There  was  a  hideous  noise  going  on  out- 
side: the  streets  were  deserted,  save  for  an  empty  'bus  or  tram 
that  rushed  past  like  the  wind  made  visible. 

"  Dangerous  to  go  out,  sir,"  said  a  special  to  Phil.  "  Where 
do  you  want  to  get  to?  " 

Phil  didn't  know.  How  explain  that  they  were  looking  for 
someone  who,  for  all  they  knew,  had  chosen  to  take  her  walk 
on  the  other  side  of  London? 

"  Damn !  "  said  Evey.  "  We  can't  stay  here.  Come  on, 
Phil.  Ask  him  if  the  tube's  running.  .  .  ." 

But  she  asked  him  herself  before  Phil  had  a  chance. 

The  special  said  it  was. 


WASTE  SHORES  349 

They  burrowed  again,  and  got  back  with  some  difficulty  to 
South  Kensington  station.  No  'buses  were  running,  but  Evey 
would  not  wait.  Hand  in  hand  they  ran,  like  demented  crea- 
tures, through  the  deserted  Chelsea  streets,  past  people  shelter- 
ing in  porches  and  specials  who  shouted  warnings.  Reaching 
home  Evey  dashed  upstairs,  flung  open  the  door  and  switched 
on  the  light.  No  Helena.  The  room  was  empty  save  for 
Mark  Antony. 

Eleven  o'clock,  twelve,  one  o'clock  came  and  the  "  All 
Clear  "  signal,  and  presently  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Evey  flew 
to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  Helena  came  in  —  slowly,  as 
though  infinitely  weary,  and  without  looking  at  them  sat  down 
in  the  blue  chair  by  the  fire. 

"  I'm  so  tired,"  she  said. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  sat  holding  it  limply  over  the  arm 
of  the  chair.  They  pounced  on  her,  pelting  her  with  questions. 
What  had  happened  to  her:  where  had  she  been? 

"  Richmond." 

"  When  the  raid  began?  " 

The  hat  she  was  holding  dropped  on  the  floor.  They  left  it 
there. 

"  Yes.  I  was  walking  down  the  Terrace  looking  at  the  river. 
Then  the  searchlights  came  out  like  white  daggers." 

"  But  when  the  noise  began?  You  didn't  stay  up  there 
then,  looking  at  the  river?  " 

Helena  wrinkled  her  forehead  as  though  she  could  not  re- 
member. 

"  People  began  to  run." 

"  Why  didn't  you  run  with  them?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

^ What  du/ you  do?"  I 

"  I  went-  on  to  the  station.  People  kept  running  by  and 
shouting  out  things.  Somebody  got  hold  of  me  and  pulled  me 
along.  I  was  too  tired.  .  .  .  They  went  on  without  me." 

"  And  when  you  got  to  the  station?     What  then?  " 

Evey  was  impatient. 

"  There  weren't  any  trains.  I  walked  .  .  .  miles,  it  seemed. 
At  Barnes  I  found  another  station.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
Barnes  because  there  was  a  common.  Ever  so  long  afterwards 
a  train  came  in.  I  got  out  somewhere  .  .  .  Clapham  Junction, 


350  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

I  think."  She  wrinkled  her  forehead  again,  in  this  painful 
effort  to  remember.  "  There  weren't  any  'buses,  I  suppose.  I 
don't  know.  I  think  I  walked.  .  .  .  I'm  so  tired.  I  couldn't 
be  as  tired  as  all  this  if  I  hadn't." 

Evey  said  nothing  —  just  sat  there  at  Philip's  feet  and 
sobbed,  her  head  on  his  knee. 

"  Why  does  she  cry?  "  Helena  asked  Phil.  "  I  wish  she 
wouldn't.  It  makes  my  head  ache." 

Evey  stopped  crying,  sat  up,  blew  her  nose  hard  and  went 
into  the  kitchen.  She  emerged  presently,  dry-eyed,  and  with 
hot  milk  which  she  made  Helena  drink. 

Phil  spent  that  night  curled  up  on  the  blue  divan. 

8 

The  wan  January  morning  was  looking  in  through  the  win- 
dow when  Evey  awoke  to  find  Helena  sitting  up  in  bed  chanting 
something  in  a  high  shrill  voice. 

"  April  again  .  .  .  two  days  to  Primrose  Day.  .  .  .  What 
does  it  matter?  We  shan't  see  any  primroses  here.  ...  I  can 
see  them  as  they  grew  down  there  in  Kent,  flowing  over  the 
roadside  like  a  yellow  sea.  You  trod  on  them,  as  you  walked. 
And  primroses  in  a  blue  frock  I  know.  April  ought  to  be 
green  and  gold.  And  here  it's  all  red.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  all  over  again  from  the  beginning. 

"What  does  it  matter?  We  shan't  see  any  primroses 
here.  ..." 

Evey  tumbled  out  of  bed  and  sent  Phil  for  a  doctor,  then 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  hunted  for  lemons.  Because  Phil 
looking  at  Helena  had  said  "  Fever,  of  some  sort,"  and  lemons 
were  supposed  to  be  good  for  fever. 

The  young  slim  woman  with  the  earnest  eyes  who  came  back 
with  Phil  and  announced  herself  as  a  doctor,  said  they  must 
have  a  nurse. 


,  Helena  faced  the  world  again  on  a  windy  day  in  March,  and 
with  reluctance,  for  bed  was  a  comfortable  place  where  you 
did  not  need  to  make  any  effort  at  all.  And  if  you  remem- 
bered things  that  were  too  poignant  and  terrible  you  just 


WASTE  SHORES  351 

turned  your  face  to  the  wall  and  people  thought  you  were 
asleep.  But  the  young  woman  with  the  earnest  eyes  had 
said  that  she  was  well  enough  to  get  up.  The  studio  was  full 
of  flowers,  and  Ursula,  for  whom  Evey  had  sent,  had  put 
a  little  pile  of  cards  and  letters  on  the  table  for  her  to  look 
at.  Letters  from  Nelly,  from  Vivien,  Stella,  Cissie  and  Wal- 
ter; cards  from  Brian  and  Barbara,  and  one,  quite  plain,  on 
which  was  scrawled  in  a  hand  she  knew,  "  J.  R.  C."  with  a 
few  flowers. 

Jerome  too !  Easy  to  see  which  were  his  flowers  —  a  great 
handful  of  them,  red  roses  and  pink,  fragrant  and  unseason- 
able, like  the  peaches  on  the  table  that  he  must  also  have  sent. 
Ursula  had  put  the  roses  in  Hilary's  pewter  vase  (the  one  he 
had  bought  that  morning  at  Liberty's),  and  the  sight  of  them 
there  touched  some  tender  fretted  string  of  memory.  Helena's 
mouth  quivered.  She  went  over  to  them,  stooped  to  smell  them 
and  saw  not  the  roses  at  all,  but  only  slender  hands  she  had 
loved,  that  turned  the  vase  round  and  round  up  there  on  a  'bus 
in  the  windy  day.  .  .  . 

She  buried  her  face  in  them  —  asked  no  questions. 

The  days  of  convalescence  passed.  Helena  regretted  each 
one  as  it  went,  because  it  was  pleasant  to  lie  here  in  the  March 
sunshine  and  feel  that  one  was  expected  to  do  nothing  at  all, 
save  take  slow  walks  round  the  Chelsea  Squares  and  read  the 
books  Evey  brought  in  from  Mudie's  and  talk  to  Ursula  of  little 
trivial  things  like  the  weather  and  the  cripples  (even  they 
seemed  trivial,  somehow,  but  then  most  things  were;  most 
things,  that  is,  that  one  could  talk  of  at  all).  Ursula  talked 
sometimes  of  Evey,  whom  she  liked.  She  supposed  that  Evey, 
one  day,  would  be  marrying  that  nice  Mr.  Roscoe  who  had  been 
here  when  she  came.  Helena  had  not  thought  of  that,  but  it 
was  true,  of  course.  Evey's  world  was  not  empty.  There  were 
lots  of  things  for  Evey.  And  for  her?  Nothing.  Nothing 
at  all.  Things  for  her  were  finished.  It  was  as  though  she 
and  Hilary  had  sat  through  a  rapturous  prelude,  and  had  had 
to  go  out  before  the  main  theme  developed.  Never,  now, 
would  she  —  or  he!  — know  what  the  finished  symphony  was 
like. 

Helena  grew  rapidly  better  as  the  days  passed,  but  though 
her  strength  revived  her  soul  felt  threadbare.  She  no  longer 


352  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

wanted  to  fight,  because  the  part  of  her  that  had  wanted  to  do 
that  had  died.  These  idle  dreaming  days  were  tolerable. 
Perhaps  they  would  go  on  for  ever. 

Presently  it  was  April  again  —  an  unbearable  month  trailing 
sharp-edged  memories.  Helena  shrank  away  from  it,  not  want- 
ing to  see  the  swelling  buds  on  the  beech  and  chestnut  trees, 
nor  the  mists  of  pale  lilac  nor  the  primroses  they  sold  in  the 
streets.  But  the  earnest-eyed  woman-doctor  insisted  that  she 
must  go  out  into  the  sun,  and  because  it  was  easier  to  go  than 
to  explain  why  she  wanted  to  hide,  she  went. 

Yet  she  realised,  none  the  less,  that  from  now  onwards  it 
was  always  going  to  be  easier  to  do  things  than  to  explain  why 
you  would  rather  not. 

So  Helena  and  Ursula  continued  to  walk  abroad  in  the  April 
weather,  until  presently  it  was  May  and  Ursula  began  to  talk  of 
going  home  to  Yorkshire. 

Quite  suddenly  then  there  woke  up  in  Helena  a  queer  longing 
for  the  moors  and  the  things  that  grew  on  them,  the  strong 
winds  that  blew  over  them,  the  peace  that  was  theirs,  indige- 
nous like  the  heather  and  the  bilberry  bush.  Peace,  most 
of  all,  was  what  she  wanted.  Peace  and  retreat  and  healing. 
Must  one  go  back  to  Yorkshire  to  look  for  them? 

Then  one  day  just  as  tea  was  ready  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
front  door  bell.  Ursula  went  down  to  answer  it  and  it  was 
some  time  before  her  step  came  on  the  stair  again,  and  with  it 
another,  heavier,  more  deliberate,  and  the  sound  of  a  masculine 
voice.  Waiting  there  at  the  table  the  colour  came  into 
Helena's  face.  An  impulse  seized  her  to  turn  and  flee.  Then 
the  door  opened  and  an  anxious-faced  Ursula  said  steadily: 

"  Here  is  a  visitor  for  you,  my  dear!  " 

She  stepped  on  one  side,  and,  limping  a  little,  Jerome  came 
into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


IT  was  Helena  who  spoke  first,  though  she  never  remem- 
bered what  it  was  she  said.  Neither  of  them  ever  remem- 
bered much  of  anything  of  that  meeting.  But  somehow 
Jerome  took  a  seat  at  the  table  and  Ursula  gave  him  some  tea: 
and  they  talked,  quite  intelligently,  of  intelligent  things. 

Presently  they  had  the  room  to  themselves.  How  that  hap- 
pened, too,  they  did  not  remember.  Some  shadowy  mental  pic- 
ture of  Ursula  with  a  basket  stayed  with  them  and  some  excuse 
(equally  shadowy)  about  a  shop  that  had  been  forgotten. 
Anyhow,  it  was  all  grotesquely  like  the  beginning  of  things 
away  there  in  that  old  house  on  the  edge  of  the  moor  when 
Jerome  used  first  to  come  to  dinner  and  people  schemed  to  leave 
them  alone  together. 

Time  passed.  A  good  deal  of  it.  A  trivial  conversation  be- 
gan, halting  and  uncertain.  Ursula  did  not  come  back.  The 
trivial  conversation  fluttered  like  a  faint  breeze  before  thunder 
and  died  down.  And  still  Ursula  did  not  come.  It  grew 
darker:  the  fire  sank  lower.  Shadows  danced  into  the  room 
and  with  them  memories,  sharp-edged,  like  those  that  came  with 
April.  Across  the  gloom  the  painted  figure  of  Hilary's  "  Deir- 
dre  "  gleamed,  shadow-strewn.  Away  there  in  the  corner,  its 
face  covered  and  turned  to  the  wall,  was  "  Interior."  That, 
now,  would  never  be  finished.  Ars  longa.  .  .  .  The  intoler- 
able memories  surged  and  surged.  Helena  shivered  in  the  chill 
May  evening.  For  how  should  one  ever  forget?  And  how 
could  one  bear  to  live  if  one  should  not? 

"Lena.     I  came  to  ask  you  something.  .  .  .  May  I?  " 

Out  of  the  pain  and  the  quiet  and  the  intolerable  memories, 
Jerome's  voice.  And  her  own,  tremulous  with  things  remem- 
bered. 

"Of  course.  .  .  ." 

353 


354  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

"  I  want  you  to  come  back." 

"  To  you?  " 

"To 'Windward.'" 

Even  in  that  shadow-girt  room  he  saw  the  little  spasm  that 
passed  over  her  face.  Was  it  wistfulness  or  distaste?  One 
could  not  tell  in  this  half-light.  And  she  said  nothing.  An 
interval  long  as  eternity  before  she  spoke. 

"  But  I  have  nothing  to  give  you.  Nothing  at  all.  Not  one 
of  the  things  you  will  want." 

"  I  want  nothing  that  you  are  not  willing  to  give.  I  ask 
nothing.  Just  come  back.  On  your  own  terms." 

Pity,  not  wistfulness,  sat  now  in  Helena's  eyes,  and  for  the 
first  time  pity  seemed  to  her  something  other  than  the  wholly 
detestable  virtue  she  had  always  thought  it.  It  appeared, 
almost,  a  thing  upon  which  one  might  erect  a  new  life.  Invis- 
ible tides!  Where  now  were  they  bearing  her?  A  strange 
thing,  this  —  that  Jerome  should  be  asking  her  to  go  back. 
After  all  that  had  happened.  But  what  was  stranger  still  was 
that  she  could  bear  to  think  of  returning.  Because  she  found 
that  she  could. 

She  wanted  peace  and  retreat  and  healing,  and  Jerome  was 
offering  them  to  her.  For  nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  One  had 
to  remember  that:  it  was  important,  since  one  had  nothing  left 
to  give.  But  one  had  to  try  to  think  clearly  —  to  get  a  little 
deeper.  Impossible  to  do  either  in  this  room  so  full  of  mem- 
ories and  agonies. 

She  moved  across  the  room  and  switched  on  the  light. 

"Well?  "asked  Jerome. 

Her  face  was  hidden  from  him.     The  big  chair  shielded  her. 

*'  Let  me  think,"  she  said,  "  let  me  think.  .  .  ." 


A  queer  situation.  The  sort  of  thing  you  would  say  did 
not  happen.  Helena  herself  would  have  said  so.  But  it  had. 
Here  in  this  blue  and  silver  room  she  had  passed  happy  hours 
with  the  one  man  she  had  ever  loved.  And  he  was  dead.  In 
his  stead  there  sat  here  now  the  man  who  —  after  all  that  had 
happened  —  remained  still  her  husband.  She  had  married  him 


WASTE  SHORES  355 

because  you  have  to  buy  your  own  experience  and  some  of  us 
are  bad  marketers  and  pay  too  dearly.  She  had  known  from 
the  first  (in  the  way  women  do  know,  unmistakably)  that  she 
had  not  loved  him:  but  she  had  for  him  respect  and  a  sort  of 
genuine  liking  —  cold  substitutes  for  love,  perhaps,  but  many 
people  have  managed  admirably  on  much  less.  She,  too,  per- 
haps, if  Hilary  had  not  come  to  show  her  what  she  had  missed. 
.  .  .  With  hands  too  eager,  then,  and  hearts  too  greedy,  they 
had  snatched  and  taken.  Jerome  had  been  left  to  realize  how 
very  cold  love's  substitutes  really  are:  what  tricks  they  can 
play  you.  .  .  . 

But  here  was  the  end.  Here,  too,  the  man  despoiled  asking 
her  to  go  back.  On  her  own  terms.  Asking  nothing.  Want- 
ing nothing,  save  the  sight  of  her,  there  as  of  old,  in  the  house 
she  had  christened.  .  .  . 

She  looked  across  at  him  sitting  back  in  Hilary's  blue  arm- 
chair, and  saw  that  he  had  changed:  that  suffering  had  not 
visited  him  without  leaving  its  mark.  And  he  was  her  victim. 
She  forgot  that,  in  some  sense,  she  too  had  been  his.  Because 
that  hadn't  mattered.  He  had  not  been  able  to  prevent  her 
from  being  happy.  One  did  great  things  for  love  and  cruel 
things.  Love  was  beyond  knowledge  and  reason  and  little 
kindly  acts.  It  was  stronger  than  pity,  but  it  could  die,  or  be 
made  of  no  account.  That  was  how  it  had  been  with  hers. 
It  had  been  made  of  no  account.  Hilary  had  passed  out  be- 
yond its  reach,  and  all  that  was  best  in  her  had  passed  out  after 
him,  though  it  could  never  overtake  him  nor  come  within  hail- 
ing distance. 

Love  and  she  could  have  no  more  to  say  to  each  other.  Some 
women  might  love  again,  but  she  would  not.  All  that  was 
over.  You  could  not  undo  it  nor  forget  it.  But  it  was  over 
—  done  with. 

The  things  of  love  were  dead.     The  things  of  pity  lived  on. 


Jerome  realised  one  thing  only  as  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 
That  he  loved  her  —  after  all  that  had  happened!  — as  much 
as  before,  even  far  more.  It  was  a  passion  of  feeling  that 
would  go  down  with  him  to  the  grave.  You  could  not  explain 


356  INVISIBLE  TIDES 

or  reason  about  it.     It  was  a  thing  as  inexorable,  as  unwav- 
ering, as  the  law  of  gravity. 

He  did  not  find  her  much  altered.  A  little  thinner,  perhaps, 
a  little  older,  certainly;  with  some  new  quality  about  her  that 
had  not,  in  quite  that  way,  belonged  to  the  former  Helena,  and 
something  that  was  tenderer  and  wiser  looking  out  of  her  eyes. 
In  a  dim  fugitive  fashion  Jerome  realised  that  she  knew  more 
—  understood  more  than  that  slim  girl  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  and  married  with  so  much  expedition.  For  those  who  go 
down  to  sorrow  bring  back  understanding  with  them.  .  .  . 


The  things  of  pity  lived  on.  ... 

Jerome  wanted  her.  Had  always  wanted  her:  so  that  her 
going  back  would  make  him  happy.  She  scarcely  looked  for 
happiness  for  herself.  One  does  not,  in  an  empty  world.  It 
takes  you  a  long  time  to  fill  up  a  world. 

Decision  stirred  within  her.  Jerome  needed  her,  and  his 
need  stood  suddenly  as  a  bulwark  between  her  and  the  intoler- 
able emptiness  of  things.  No  one  else  wanted  her  as  Jerome 
wanted  her  —  not  even  Evey  whose  life  would  soon  be  full  of 
those  beautiful  things  Helena  had  had  and  was  now  done  with 
for  ever.  Not  that  you  could  have  had  them  for  nothing. 
Deep  down  within  her  was  stored  their  sweetness  and  fra- 
grance. Later  one  might  dig  and  come  to  them.  Only  not 
now.  One  had  no  energy  for  digging  to-day  —  nor  any  mind 
for  it. 

Meantime,  there  was  Jerome.  Jerome  had  shifted  back  again 
into  her  life.  She  saw  him  suddenly  as  a  permanent  figure, 
and  knew  that  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  make  him  happy. 
Here,  now,  at  the  last,  she  owed  him  that.  It  was  a  debt  she 
could  pay.  And  though  she  might  not  have  happiness  she 
would  certainly  have  peace.  That,  at  the  moment,  was  the  only 
thing  that  mattered  —  that  she  might  have  peace. 

"  Well?  "  said  Jerome  again. 

Her  slow  crooked  smile  made  his  heart  leap. 

"  If  you'll  have  me  ...  empty-handed,"  she  said,  "  I'll 
come." 


WASTE  SHORES  357 


Later,  Evey  had  to  be  told.  .  .  . 
And  at  the  end  of  a  lot  of  other  things  she  said, 
"  Oh,  Lena,  it  seems  like  the  end  of  everything.  .  .  ." 
"  But  the  end,"  Helena  objected,  "  is  so  much  like  the  begin- 
ning, you  see.  .  .  ." 
Evey  wept. 

6 

Ursula  was  wiser  than  Evey.  She  knew  that  life  did  not 
come  to  an  end  just  because  the  thing  you  treasured  most  had 
dropped  out.  Life  went  on.  You  had  to  do  the  best  you 
could  for  yourself  with  the  things  that  remained.  For  Helena 
there  remained  Jerome.  Ursula  liked  Jerome  and  honoured 
him.  He  was  possessive:  he  clutched  still  with  both  hands 
at  the  traditions  modernity  was  tearing  from  him.  But  he 
loved  Helena.  And  Ursula,  being  wise,  knew  that  you  look  at 
your  possessions  very  differently  when  once  you  have  realised 
that  they  are  capable  of  getting  up  and  walking  away  from  you. 
Moreover,  she  was  optimistic  enough  to  believe  that  the  world 
must  hold  some  place  for  two  people  who  honestly  desired  to 
make  each  other  happy.  .  .  . 

So  Ursula  did  not  weep. 


Two  days  later  Jerome  and  a  car  awaited  Helena  at  the  door. 
A  car  as  new  and  unfamiliar  as  the  scene  to  which  it  was  bear- 
ing her.  She  stepped  in,  hugging  Mark  Antony  tight  in  her 
arms.  Jerome  tucked  the  rug  round  her  feet,  and  Evey  and 
Ursula  called  good-byes  from  the  open  door. 

The  London  streets  took  some  shaking  off:  there  were  so 
many  of  them.  But  presently  the  open  road  gleamed  ahead 
and  Helena  lay  bark  and  closed  her  eyes.  If  her  heart  ached 
she  was  not  aware  of  it.  She  was  aware  this  morning  of  noth- 
ing at  all  save,  as  of  old,  that  Jerome  drove  well,  and  that  away 
there  in  the  hills  peace  waited. 

THE  END 


A     000  040  780     9 


